


Custos Angeli

by yamiskoi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Romance, Anxiety, Body Image, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, F/M, Family Drama, Family Issues, Family Member Death, Guardian Angels, HermioneandRonareanoldmarriedcouple, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Past Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Scars, Sirius Black Lives, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Wakes & Funerals, making amends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-08-06 07:42:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16384037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yamiskoi/pseuds/yamiskoi
Summary: Harry Potter wakes up after the War. He certainly didn't know about the existence of Guardian Angels, but now that he does, why did his have to be Fred Weasley?Sirius Black wakes up after the War. He certainly did know about the existence of Guardian Angels, but Remus Lupin being his makes perfect sense.Their task is to bring Harry and Sirius together, to create some happiness after the War, but guilt and exhaustion and life gets in the way.(Rating will go up)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for checking out my fic! I had this idea a few weeks ago, and it's been pretty easy to write so far. I absolutely adore this ship and hope that you do, too. I used to write fanfic all the time, but nowadays it's a bit more difficult, so I'm sorry if things seem a bit clunky - I've tried my best to self-edit whilst improving my style. Thanks again for reading and I hope you enjoy!

When Harry woke up that morning in number 12 Grimmauld Place, the last person he’d expected to see was Fred Weasley, his upside-down face grinning back at him.

“Rise and shine, Harry,” Fred said, in a little sing-song voice. Harry groaned and blinked three times, hard.

The flame-haired Weasley did not go away.

“You’re dead,” Harry blurted out, patting the bedside table until he found his glasses. He found them and put them on. Orange hair, freckles, broad shoulders – definitely Fred.

Fred rolled his eyes in mock irritation. “No shit.” The fond look he shot Harry suggested he wasn't really mad or annoyed. The younger of the two blinked again, vision still blurred from sleep.

“So… why are you here?” Harry asked, stifling a yawn. Light was already pouring in through the crack between the curtains and the wall, so he knew it must be mid-morning, but he still didn’t feel fully rested. He’d been having trouble sleeping recently, what with the end of the War and the huge loss of life that followed. His mind perpetually whirled with thoughts of obituaries, morale-boosting speeches and how to best restore the Wizarding Community to what it was – problems he probably shouldn’t be worrying about, but was anyway.

Fred’s grin fell a bit. “You really don’t know? God, didn’t they teach you lot anything at Hogwarts?”

“Not about dead people waking you up in the morning, no,” Harry said, a little irritated.

Fred bumped his fist into his chest once, then held out his arms as if showing off himself. “I’m your Guardian Angel, Harry,” he said.

Harry groaned and let his head sink back into the pillow.

*

One floor above, Sirius was stirring in his four-poster bed. His pillow was damp with either drool or tears, he could never tell the difference. He rolled out of the damp patch, his head immediately complaining at the movement.

“M’never drinking again…” he mumbled to himself, still not opening his eyes as he knew his headache would blossom into a fully-fledged hangover if he did.

“Like I’ve never heard that one before.”

Sirius threw an arm across his face in response. His heart was racing – there was no mistaking that voice. “You’re dead, Remus,” he moaned, still refusing to open his eyes.

A laugh. It was a sad laugh. “Yes, Sirius. You know why I’m here.”

“… I thought Guardian Angels were just a tale told to Muggle children.”

“Apparently not,” Remus said softly, resting himself against a bedpost like he had back when they shared a dormitory at Hogwarts. Sirius still hadn’t moved, and Remus knew exactly why. He’d drank far too much – again – and was regretting it, contemplating staying in bed long enough to delay the urge to puke. It had been a common sight during their school days, and since the Order had been using Grimmauld Place as a communal space to discuss strategies. The only time he hadn’t overdone it was when Harry stayed over, but even now that wasn’t enough – Remus had glimpsed Harry sleeping soundly when he'd passed by his bedroom earlier.

Eventually, Remus got tired of the silence, and he sighed. “I’m here to help you, Sirius,” he said slowly.

“I don’t need help,” Sirius replied, his words muffled by the arm still slung across his face.

“Clearly,” Remus said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

This time, it was Sirius who sighed.

“Look, Moony, here’s the thing. I know what you’re going to say to me. You’re going to tell me that I shouldn’t be drinking so much, that I’m missing out on life because I spend my time brooding around the house with my Godson, that I’m a waste of space. I don’t want or need to hear it, and frankly I’m allowed to wallow about for a bit when my best mate on the planet went and got himself blown up during the War.” Sirius finally opened his eyes and threw back his arm, not daring to look at Lupin but instead choosing to stare up at the canvas above him. The pattern he’d seen since his childhood was only a little shakier than he remembered – good.

There was an uneasy silence as Remus settled himself to sit on the bed, his presence not even making the bed sink. Sirius shivered at the realisation, pulling his covers tighter around himself.

“Those things are probably all true,” Remus started, and Sirius snorted. “But I have another job to do,” he continued, “I have to make you realise something. The quicker the better. I need to move on and be with her, Sirius.”

Sirius finally turned to look at Remus. He looked no different than he had during their final years together during the War. His suit remained intact, and there was little to no evidence that he’d suffered during his last moments defending Hogwarts. Sirius, on the other hand, was a wreck. Permanent dark circles were stamped into his skull, his hair tatty and scruffy, and he was certain he stank – showers were not exactly a part of his daily routine anymore. The only time he bothered was his appearance was when he was obligated to attend a public event, but for the first time in ages, him and Harry didn't need to leave the confines of Grimmauld Place; thus the handsome Sirius Black looked about the same as when he'd been in Azkaban.

“Fine,” Sirius muttered after a while, closing his eyes again. “So what are you here to tell me?”

Remus grinned slyly. “That you need to stop waiting around and snog Harry’s face off.”

*

“So, let me recap,” Harry said, frowning and rubbing his tired eyes with his fingers, “you’re my Guardian Angel, and you’re not going anywhere until I realise… _something_ … and then you’ll go… somewhere?” Fred nodded, so Harry continued, “and no one else will be able to see you, you won’t be able to see or be anyone else’s Guardian Angel, and you’re basically going to change my life.”

Fred nodded enthusiastically. “Yep!” he said, swinging his legs from the top of the wardrobe he was sitting on. He was a little too chipper for Harry’s liking, but he finally began to relax. Maybe having a Guardian Angel wouldn’t be so bad. He certainly deserved a little happiness, especially after the blow of losing friends and family during the Battle of Hogwarts.

“There is… something else too,” Fred said, as soon as Harry felt relieved at having remembered everything. Harry groaned again, and sank his head back down into his hands. He just needed a normal day where he wasn’t attending funerals or being interviewed for the _Daily Prophet_. His education from Fred about Guardian Angels had been interesting, but now he just really wanted to rest. He _needed_ to rest.

Fred stopped swinging his legs for a moment, a sombre look on his usually cheerful face. “I’m not actually going to tell you what you need to do.”

“… Because…?”

“It’s more fun this way!”

“Brilliant,” Harry muttered sarcastically, staring down at the floor between his fingers, “so you get to pop up every now and then to drop me cryptic hints about how to change my life.”

“About how to _improve_ your life, Harry. This pity-party is done. You know you can’t keep going on like this, it’s not healthy, it’s not something we would have wanted, blah-blah-blah, now are you going to accept my help or not?” Fred grumbled, folding his arms like a petulant kid.

It would have been funny if Harry hadn't been so sleep-deprived, so much in need of another month's worth of good, quality sleep.

“Fine,” Harry muttered, not missing the way Fred fist-pumped at the news, “just, fine. Just don’t embarrass me.”

Fred grinned. “I’m not a poltergeist, Harry. I won’t pull your trousers down or anything. Besides, I’m a bit too mature for that sort of thing nowadays.”

Harry snorted. “’Course you are, mate,” he said.

*

Sirius and Lupin were in the kitchen when Harry finally came down, wearing the same t-shirt and jeans he had the day before. “He’s looking a little worse for wear,” Remus commented upon seeing his haggard appearance, and Sirius shot him a look, annoyed. Harry looked fine in his opinion, and probably would even if he wore a paper bag, but of course he didn’t say anything. After all Harry had been through recently, he didn't need to know about the Guardian Angel situation. It'd probably just make him worry more, something that Sirius knew the younger man definitely did not need.

“’Morning Harry,” he said, trying his best not to sound irritated at his situation. He finished swallowing his hastily thrown-together hangover potion, grimacing at the taste. Bitter. “Tea?”

“Please,” Harry and Fred said at the same time, and Harry shot his Guardian Angel a disparaging look. Fred merely returned the look with a face that shone with innocence. Innocence which both of them knew he didn’t have. “You’re up early,” Harry observed as Sirius set about making the tea.

Sirius shot a sidelong glance at Lupin, who seemed to be waiting for the Animagus to kiss Harry right there on the spot like they’d discussed upstairs. He was even making little kissing faces at Sirius, and the Wizard stared at him for a moment before replying to Harry's comment. “Yeah, I… felt like being productive today. Y’know, showering, brushing my hair, maybe even going out with you somewhere.”

“Don’t push the boat out too far, Padfoot,” Lupin snorted. Sirius did his best to ignore him as he served the tea, handing Harry his in his favourite mug.

Harry smiled as he accepted the tea, inhaling the aroma as he waited for it to become drinkable. He let the warmth seep through the ceramic just long enough to make his hands sting a little before pulling back. “That sounds nice,” he said, settling back into his chair more comfortably as Fred seemed content to just sit there and be. Little did he know, the Weasley twin was plotting and scheming, smirking. “Where were you thinking of going?”

Sirius winced. “Are you alright, Sirius?” Harry asked, concerned.

Sirius gave him a small, but forced smile. “I’m fine, Harry. No need to worry about me,” he said, doing his best to ignore the poking his ribs were getting from his best friend, who was _still_ making kissing faces behind his back, “anyway, I was thinking of taking you clothes shopping, and then if the weather’s nice going out for a picnic somewhere.”

Harry blinked, pausing as he went to take a tentative sip from his tea. “Clothes shopping?” he asked, as if he hadn’t heard properly. Sirius nodded, a more genuine smile on his face. He adored his alone time with Harry, and perhaps that was why Remus had been so insistent on them forming a romantic relationship. Recently they had both been so busy, preparing for Sirius' trial, celebrating, then writing speeches to deliver at funerals, planning a memorial structure of some kind at the still damaged Hogwarts... it was about time they spent quality time together, enjoying themselves.

“Sure. Can’t have you walking around in your cousin’s clothes anymore. What kind of shops do you like?”

Harry looked uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat. He cradled the mug in his hands. He avoided eye contact. “Well, actually…” he started slowly, not really sure how to continue, “I’ve never really… been clothes shopping. Ever,” he finished lamely, bringing his eyes up to meet his Godfathers.

Sirius huffed, putting his tea down with perhaps a little more force than necessary. A little droplet of tea splashed out, marking the table. Sirius' moods were infamous, so Harry's mouth began running away from him, “I mean, I went shopping for my school robes with Hagrid, so I’m just exaggerating really,” Harry said quickly, but Sirius held up a hand to silence him. It was clear he did _not_ consider shopping for school uniform a real outing.

“Your Aunt and Uncle, they never… took you clothes shopping? Ever?” he asked, slowly. He was biting his tongue, figuratively and literally, anger curling inside his stomach at his Godson’s deprived childhood. Remus laid a hand on his shoulder, but Sirius shook it off, and to Harry the movement just seemed to be the older Wizard rolling his shoulders. The Werewolf merely looked on, watching the exchange as it became tense. Harry was clearly uncomfortable, but of course Sirius had to push the issue.

“Not really…” Harry began slowly, and Sirius pursed his lips. A parade of emotions crossed his face – fury, amazement, sadness. A lightbulb snapped and flickered above their heads – a sure-fire sign that Sirius was enraged, his magic unchecked - but no one dared look. Harry sat fearfully watching his Godfathers face, biting his lip anxiously.

Eventually he brought his eyes back up to Harry’s, a taut smile on the older man’s face. “I see,” Sirius said calmly, bringing his mug up to his lips to take a sip, although his actions looked extremely deliberate, almost robotic, “well, we’re changing that today, Harry. What sort of shops would you like to go to? There must be lots of places you'd like to try.”

“Err…” Harry started, struggling to remember where his Aunt had taken him and Dudley to, making him carry armfuls of extra large clothing to the fitting rooms so that the fat, spoiled child could try them all on.

“Uniqlo’s good for jeans, mate,” Fred whispered in his ear, and Harry jumped a little at the sudden noise. He tried to look nonchalant, but knew Sirius had caught the weird movement, the older man frowning. “They have good prices. H&M’s cheap and good for basic stuff like t-shirts.”

“H&M,” Harry blurted, and Sirius raised an eyebrow, so he continued in a rush, “and Uniqlo jeans are good quality, cheap.”

“Really?” Sirius asked, gripping his mug a little bit tighter, and Harry swallowed again, nervously, “they’re both very cheap Muggle brands, Harry. Don’t you want to go somewhere… a little bit more upmarket?” When Harry didn’t say anything, only offering a weak smile, Sirius sighed, ran a hand through his tangled and dirty hair. “You deserve nice clothes, Harry,” he finished simply, biting his tongue as Remus gripped his shoulder tight, warningly.

“I’ve got no idea about upmarket, mate,” Fred grumbled, and Harry nodded ever so slightly in acknowledgement, “My family were poor. It was Primark and hand-me-downs for us, I’m afraid.”

Harry stared down into his cup. He knew it was weird, but he didn't need Sirius to make a big deal out of this. It had happened – or, rather, hadn't happened – and that was that. There was no reason to feel upset or let down by it all. And he certainly didn't feel angry about what the Dursley's had done to him after what he'd experienced during the War; he'd rather forget everything up until his new life.

Eventually, Harry shrugged. “I don't know, Sirius,” he admitted quietly. He looked up at his Godfather shyly. “Could you help me?”

For the first time in what felt like an extraordinarily long time, Sirius smiled, genuinely.

*

“Why do you want me and Harry to be together so badly? Not that I'm completely against the idea, you know,” Sirius said, bustling about the bathroom trying to find a decent razor. He finally found one and set about searching for shaving foam. He was going to groom his face, try to brush his hair, and then set about washing himself for today's 'date'.

Remus smiled to himself, leaning against the doorframe as he watched Sirius rushing about the place. It was nice being with his best friend again, even though they were physically a million miles apart. Only in this strange, semi-metaphysical way could he interact and communicate with Sirius, but that was what he had to be content with until they met again.

“If you're not against the idea, why haven't you made a move?” The Werewolf asked, and Sirius rolled his eyes at his friend in the mirror, having successfully found some shaving cream.

“Because, you dimwit, he's dealing with a lot right now. His friends died, some of them got mauled – ouch!” Sirius exclaimed as he nicked his cheek, a droplet of blood blooming and mixing with the white foam. He glared at his reflection for a moment before continuing, “Besides, I've been dealing with my own stuff too, y'know. Haven't exactly been in the mood for wooing.”

“That's not like you at all!” Remus said with a laugh, “Even after James you went back to flirting with everyone immediately.”

“Yeah, well, couldn't let Lily know about his dirty little secret, eh?” Sirius said, only somewhat spitefully. His face was half-shaved at this point, although he wasn't exactly sure whether he wanted a completely hair-free face or not. He stood gazing into the mirror, razor poised as he considered how to present himself. After some thought, he resumed shaving.

“Anyway... there are a million reasons why I haven't made a move yet on Harry,” Sirius continued, catching but ignoring his friend's raised eyebrow for a moment or two. “The James thing, for one. I don't want him to think he's a replacement for his dad... because he isn't. Harry is Harry. James is James. They're different.” Remus nodded to show he was listening, but still clearly dissatisfied. Sirius thought again.

“Then there's the age difference – and before you say anything, I know that's a shit excuse, but it might change things. Maybe Harry wants someone his own age.”

“Or he might want someone with a bit of experience,” Remus pointed out, “and yes, so far, your excuses have been shit. Try harder.”

“Okay... being gay. Maybe he isn't gay.”

“You know he is, Sirius. You caught him kissing that Malfoy boy after Quidditch practice in his third year.”

“Doesn't mean he's gay, they stopped when they saw me.”

“Because your Animagus form looks exactly like the Grim, you twit.”

Sirius barked out a laugh, then checked himself – it wouldn't do for Harry to walk in on him now, washing the shaving foam from his face, trying to tackle the nest of tangles and knots in his hair. He tugged at the comb, wincing at the pain, hoping his hair was still salvageable. He hated himself with short hair. He needed his long, lucious locks back if he had any hope of seducing his Godson.

“Look, the point – is -” Sirius grimaced, trying not to tug too much at his hair but needing it to become untangled, “-we've been so busy with – ow! - other stuff, it's just not – ow... the right time for a new relationship.”

It was Remus' turn to laugh. Sirius didn't address it, continuing to drag the hairbrush through his hair. His successfully detangled hair still looked a mess, but it would do for now. He could probably get away with only trimming an inch or so if his intensive hair care regime didn't help.

“Bill and Fleur,” was all the Werewolf said quietly. Sirius rolled his eyes, growling a little bit in frustration with his hair. When did he let it get so unruly?

“You and Tonks,” Sirius added, his fight with the hairbrush all but over. He gritted his teeth as he worked through one particularly stubborn knot.

“Was hoping you hadn't forgotten,” Remus said coolly, although a quick glance at the man showed he wasn't really upset. He was smiling slightly, his face still worn-out despite death. Yes, despite the thirteen-year age difference, despite his reservations about Lycanthropy, Remus and Tonks had married. They'd had a son together. All whilst helping the Order to fight off Voldemort, to stall long enough for Harry, Hermione and Ron to finish whatever they were doing.

“So _your_ argument,” Sirius said, shucking his trousers and boxers in one go, ignoring Remus' uncomfortable laugh, “is that other people _found_ happiness during the War, so we should find happiness _after_ the War.”

“Pretty much – God, you haven't changed at all, Padfoot! We're not in Hogwarts anymore!” The Werewolf cried as Sirius stood there completely unrobed. The Animagus grinned, stepping into the shower.

“Nothing you haven't seen before, Remus,” Sirius said matter-of-factly. He heard Remus give another uncomfortable laugh and leave. He turned on the shower and did his best to ignore his thoughts, although it proved pointless. He'd been a thinker before Azkaban, and after twelve years of that and then another few years in solitude and hiding, he'd only become more brooding. Water rushed down his face, his thoughts tumbling out just as fast.

Maybe... maybe a relationship with Harry would work. Sirius hadn't been lying when he'd said he wasn't completely against the concept. He'd spent some nights sharing a bed with Harry, the two sleeping beside one another in the aftermath of the War. Nightmares had ensnared them both, and it made sense for someone to be close by to spare the other a restless night. A few weeks later they'd slowly drifted back to their own beds again, but Sirius had woken frequently before Harry, quietly enjoying the cuddles and closeness of him, the pressure of a body squeezed against his own. He'd got wind of Harry's crush on him in fifth year, too, but never acted on it, too hooked on his Firewhiskey and too disheartened by his inability to help the Order. After that it had been smiles exchanged across the table, hopeless flirting (from Harry's side that made Sirius almost laugh out loud more than once), and a brief encounter of being squashed together in the pantry, Harry's eyes hopeful and needy, before Sirius edged his way out, and they never spoke of it. 

Perhaps Harry would return the affection, needing someone to look after him after years of being self-sufficient. Perhaps Harry would gladly move his things back into Sirius' room, and they'd redecorate the entire house together, matching it to their style and personality. Perhaps Harry would kiss him, hold him, get fucked by him. 

Sirius' cock twitched.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Sirius have their first date (sort of).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again, thanks to everyone who's shown an interest in this fic so far. This chapter has been a bit difficult to write, although I'm not sure why. I hope it satisfies. Please note the updated tags regarding mental health, which I understand may be triggering for some readers. 
> 
> I'm currently in the process of moving house, so updates may be a bit sporadic for a while, but rest assured I am working on this alongside my other HP/SB fanfic, Highlights and Lowlights. Enjoy!

Chapter 2

Harry was about to change his shirt when he hesitated.

“Could you – turn around, or something?”

“Nothing I haven't seen before, mate. Did you forget we were on the same Quidditch team for five years?”

“... 'Course not,” Harry said after a moment's pause, and reluctantly changed.

He hadn't _really_ forgotten – but everything before the past few weeks was a bit hazy. In fact, most of Harry's recent days had passed by in a daze, interviews and funerals and press releases all blurring into one big act of presenting himself as okay. The more Muggle-side of Harry muttered something about memory loss being linked to all kinds of horrible and nasty things, but the Wizarding-side of Harry usually won those internal battles. Besides, he was the Man Who'd Conquered, the Master of Death, the Boy Who'd Lived – and whatever else the newspapers were championing him as.

Once he'd changed his bottoms, Harry stared at his shirtless reflection. He was a little on the skinnier side at the moment - despite Sirius' attempts to beef him up (at the behest of Mrs Weasley, no doubt) – so his face looked gaunt and dull. His hair still persistently stuck up at weird angles. The scrapes and scratches from the final battle had almost faded, although the Killing Curse scar still looked fresh. Harry lifted his arm to fully elongate the mark, swallowing. He ran his fingers over the pink, rippled flesh, then around the scar itself to where the skin had turned purple, like a bruise. Of course, ordinary Killing Curses don't leave marks, but Hermione's hasty research had concluded that the new scar was the exit point of Voldemort's fragmented soul. It was more than likely that Harry would have it for the rest of his life. It covered a large portion of his chest, a glaring blemish on white skin.

Fred didn't say anything, approaching Harry from behind. Harry saw him move in the mirror, but didn't turn or say anything, pulling a clean shirt over his head.

“That's a big one,” Fred observed, for once not joking. He scratched his ear, thinking about his brother.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed quietly. Fred clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Look, Harry – I'm sorry. I didn't think-”

“It's alright,” Harry cut him off, although he didn't really feel alright, “just have to get used to it, that's all.”

Fred kept his hand on Harry's shoulder. It was strange – although not wholly physical, there was definitely a difference between when Fred was touching and not touching Harry. The spot where the Weasley's hand was felt warm, tingly, and smelt of cut grass and bubblegum. Harry leaned his face into the hand, watching as his cheek sank through Fred's hand. The scent became so strong Harry had to step back for a moment, reeling.

“It felt like you were back,” Harry said with a gasp.

Fred grinned. “I am back, Harry. Back to make your life uncomfortable.”

“Wouldn't wish for anything else,” Harry replied, honestly. Upon reflection, it was great to have his friend again, and despite the gritty, numb feelings inside he was happy – although uncomfortably so. How unfair was it that it was  _ him _ seeing Fred and not George? He shuddered at the thought of visiting the Burrow later that week. He couldn't avoid the Weasley's forever, but he was not looking forward to that experience with Fred by his side. It seemed... wrong, somehow.

Fred's grin widened. “Great. Now hurry up and get ready, you big girl. Sirius is waiting.”

Harry snorted. “He takes ages getting ready. I'm fine for now.”

“Fine. He's the big girl and you're the little girl.”

Harry sighed. “Wouldn't wish for anything else,” he repeated.

*

Harry had, of course, been right. When he finally heard the sound of footsteps, he nudged the bored ginger with a bony elbow. “Told you,” he hissed. Fred rolled his eyes.

“Hope it's worth it,” the Guardian Angel muttered.

It was. Sirius looked a lot better – more like the man in Harry's parents' wedding photo than a cheap impression of that man. His hair had been brushed, washed and cut to collarbone length before being pulled back into a messy, high bun. He was wearing Muggle clothes; jeans with a band t-shirt underneath his standard leather jacket. Sirius looked effortlessly _cool_ , and Harry realised he hadn't said anything yet.

“You look... nice,” he said, cringing inwardly at his flagging vocabulary. Sirius grinned.

“Thanks. Definitely feel a bit more human now. Being a confident autotonsorialist helps, too.”

“An autoton _what_?” Harry asked, stuffing his feet into well-worn trainers (Sirius eyed them with undisguised contempt).

“Someone who cuts their own hair. But autotonsorialist sounds much cooler, right?”

“Right,” Harry agreed, “but how did you learn that word?”

Sirius' smile fell for a moment as he unlocked the door and chivvied Harry outside. “Moony,” he said quietly, and that was all the explanation Harry needed.

Remus snorted, unheard and unseen by the others. “And you said you'd never use that word,” he said with a smile. Sirius hummed.

*

As it was a weekday still some time before the end of term for Muggle children, Central London was significantly less busy than it could have been. Most of the people wandering the streets were slow-walking, wide-eyed tourists, or office people hurrying about with a takeaway coffee in hand. It was nice to go somewhere without the constant flash of cameras and confused babble of journalists hunting for a soundbite, Harry reflected as he let himself be led by Sirius through the streets of Muggle London. They'd Side-Apparated in together, Sirius smelling clean, like worn leather. It had been a bit of a wrench to pull himself away from Sirius' side.

Harry had started having feelings for Sirius in his fifth year at Hogwarts. For once in his life, he felt like someone was on his side, advocating for him and _being there_ for him. He found himself searching for more reasons to spend time with Sirius, occasionally even shunning time with his friends to do so. Sometimes they'd sit with Buckbeak when Sirius felt useless and frustrated, stroking the giant beast and talking about Order business or anything else that came to mind. Other times Harry would go to Sirius' bedroom and the older wizard would burst into a huge grin and make space for him on the bed and they'd talk for hours on end, Sirius reminiscing about his Marauder days at Hogwarts. On other occasions Harry would purposely volunteer to assist Sirius and Remus with whatever room they'd decided to clean, watching delightedly as various Hexes and Curses ricocheted from the Dark objects they'd found.

One time Sirius had become so frustrated with a particularly stubborn cabinet that he invented a new, more interesting way to get revenge against his family. He traced out something in the air, and a moment later giant white letters appeared on the cabinet, spelling 'fuck you'. Remus had rolled his eyes, saying something to Harry about how this was not a helpful spell for him to learn, but it was too late – Harry had already begun assisting Sirius in his artistic endeavours by drawing a huge penis on the still fixed, still unmoving cabinet. They'd laughed and laughed, adding more and more childish scribbles until Mrs Weasley discovered what they were up to and gave them both a telling off. Harry remembered trying desperately not to laugh as he was being reprimanded, an even larger and more ludicrous dick perfectly aligning itself with the top of Mrs Weasley's head. Sirius had given him a look of such pride afterwards, and he held the boy close in a side-hug that made Harry feel giddy for days.

Then there'd been the time in the pantry. Despite having a huge kitchen, the pantry of Grimmauld Place was a narrow, cramped space, jars and bottles of things squeezed onto every shelf. Harry had gone into the pantry on the behest of Mrs Weasley to find some jam, and he all but crashed into Sirius. He'd been unable to speak for a moment, pushed up against his Godfather's body, until he rasped out the word 'jam'. Sirius reached above Harry's head, brushing their bodies against each other again, and Harry accepted the jar but still stared at the older man. He wanted nothing more than to kiss him, to lean up and wrap his arms around his neck. To feel their bodies pressed tightly against each other again.

But it didn't happen. Sirius shot Harry an awkward smile and swiftly left, leaving Harry confused and grumpy for the rest of the day. Since then Harry had fluctuated between hiding away his feelings and baring them through copious amounts of flirting, but still Sirius had done nothing about it.

It hadn't stopped the dreams or the thoughts or the feelings, though.

“Here we are,” Sirius said, snapping Harry out of his reverie. He eased a hand behind Harry's arm, guiding him into the nearest clothes shop. Harry stared.

It had been a long time since his last shopping trip, and even longer since he'd been shopping for Muggle clothes. Every corner of the shop was packed with racks of clothes, and the store even had multiple levels. It was certainly a change from the smaller shops Harry had seen in Surrey.

“Come on,” Sirius said, again guiding Harry with his hand, “let's get you some jeans.”

As it turned out, the store had an entire section dedicated to denim. Harry stared at the names of the fits, not really knowing what he'd like or where to start. Did he want slim jeans, skinny jeans, high waisted jeans or tapered jeans?

Meanwhile, Fred was howling with laughter.

“Mate, what the Hell is the difference between 'slim' jeans and 'skinny' jeans?” He asked in-between laughs, an incorporeal hand skimming the fabrics. Harry shook his head, staring at the fits and finding no discernible difference.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” he mumbled, picking out a pair of slim jeans and checking the label. What on earth was his waist size and leg length? “Who actually _knows_ this stuff?” he asked, a little louder this time.

Sirius, who'd been checking out some of the jeans for himself, came over. He'd in fact been told to do so by Remus, who'd seen that Harry was open-mouthed and wide-eyed, rooted to the spot.

“Harry?” he asked, and the teen turned to him, a million questions on his mind.

“What's my waist size?” he blurted, not entirely sure where to start. He was holding a pair of jeans that would obviously swallow him whole, but that was all he'd ever known, inheriting Dursley's cast-offs when he inevitably got too fat for them.

Sirius stood back and stared at his Godson's body. It was impossible to tell his size with the baggy t-shirt he had on. He stepped forward and wrapped his hands around Harry's middle. The younger wizard squirmed a bit in surprise, but didn't say anything. Sirius' hands were huge and warm and they were touching _him,_ holding him with a firm but gentle grip. Harry wasn't exactly sure why, but he knew he liked the hold the older wizard had on him. He felt like he could be lifted or moved effortlessly, and there was something stirring within him at the thought of being powerless.

If Sirius had noticed any of this going on, he didn't say. After a short while he removed his hands, and Harry tried his best not to look disappointed, feeling bereft and empty.

“26 inches,” Sirius said, quietly. He took another step back to look at Harry's legs, and for a moment Harry wished he had some special technique to figure that out, too, but before he could even move Sirius said, “30, maybe 32 inches.”

Harry had barely a moment's notice before the ribbing began.

“Sirius, oh pleeeeeeeeease hold me again with your biiiiig, stroooooong hands!” Fred crooned, making kissing faces and wrapping his arms around himself. Harry did his best to ignore him, but a slight flush did reach his cheeks.

Sirius, too, was being given a hard time.

“This is some date, Padfoot, you've already felt up the boy and he hasn't even been wined and dined!” Remus complained, leaning on a nearby rack.

Frustratingly, neither man could get their Guardian Angel to stop without doing something that would look very odd, so Harry turned back to the jeans and thumbed through the fits aimlessly.

“I never knew there was this much stuff about jeans,” he muttered, and Sirius barked out a laugh.

“Yeah, nowadays there's all kinds of fits and styles you can get,” Sirius sidled up to Harry, and put a hand on top of Harry's to stop his sorting. Green met grey. “Do you... do you want me to help you pick out some things, Harry? I won't pick out anything too scary. I promise I was the most fashionable man in my year at Hogwarts.”

Harry's cheeks warmed again at the contact (“You little girl,” Fred scoffed from behind him). “Are you sure? Because I remember us and Remus finding those leopard print trousers in your wardrobe-”

“Those trousers got me through some very tough times!” Sirius interrupted loudly, Remus sniggering behind him. Fred snorted and did a poor impression of a leopard's roar in Harry's ear, miming a leopard clawing at its prey.

“Okay fine, if I avoid leopard print will you let me help you?” Sirius sighed, accepting defeat. It was too bad those leopard print trousers no longer fit...

“Yes,” Harry said quickly, adding, “thanks,” as an afterthought.

“Okay,” the older man scanned the denim available, took Harry by the hand and began walking. “We'll get you some basic colours that'll match with pretty much anything,” he said as they went, pulling out a pair of blue mid-wash jeans in a skinny fit, then another pair in a looser fit with distressed detail. As they went around a shop assistant scurried over to offer them a basket, which the pair gladly accepted. Harry let go of Sirius' hand to hold the basket, watching as his Godfather picked out some jeans in black and grey.

When Sirius was satisfied that they had a good range of jeans to try on, they moved over to look at some shirts. Again, Sirius glanced at the teen before choosing a size small, picking out basic tees in a range of colours.

“Oh, now this would look _classic_ with the blue ripped jeans we picked out!” Sirius announced, pulling out a white t-shirt and throwing it in the basket. Immediately Harry swallowed, his heartrate increasing and anxiety dropping into his stomach like a stone.

“Err – Sirius, I don't think I want anything in white-”

“Nonsense! White is a great colour. Besides, it matches pretty much anything.”

Harry grimaced. “Yeah, but... er... it gets dirty so quickly and-”

“Nothing a little _Tergeo_ won't fix.”

Harry didn't have a counter to that, so he kept his mouth shut. He watched miserably as his Godfather threw in a v-neck white shirt. Fred watched as the Master of Death said nothing else to dissuade the older wizard.

“Mate, what – are you doing?” Fred hissed, although it was unclear why – he couldn't be seen or heard by anyone else anyway, “just _tell_ him you're not happy!”

Harry thought for a moment before he replied, Sirius still well within listening proximity. “It ain't all that easy,” he sang, realising that he could probably get away with singing his responses to Fred when out in public, even though he felt really stupid.

“Yes it is,” Fred sang back angrily, but before they could finish their argument, Sirius had decided he'd picked out enough clothes.

“Right. Let's try these on,” he said, oblivious to Harry's misery. He took the overflowing basket of clothes away from his Godson as they headed towards the Changing Rooms. When they got there, a bored-looking assistant stared at the amount of clothes they'd picked out.

“Limit's usually eight items of clothing,” the assistant said, “but we're not busy. Go on in, lads. Don't tell me boss.”

“Wasn't going to,” Sirius said with a smile and a wink. The assistant watched them pick out an empty room, Sirius shoving the basket into Harry's arms. Accepting defeat, Harry backed into the fitting room, alone; Fred had decided to wait outside, still frowning over Harry's silence. The fallout of the War had certainly changed him.

Immediately after the War, Harry had been whisked from place to place every day with barely a moment's rest. He had official Ministry business to attend to, explaining exactly how he defeated the Dark Lord to a hastily thrown-together cabinet of officials. He was interviewed for newspapers, TV shows and magazines. Owls and exotic birds dropped letters of thanks and condolences and requests several times a day. On several occasions, Harry's heart stopped when he saw tear-stained, shakily hand-written letters from families of his fellow Hogwarts students, asking if he would be so kind as to attend the funeral of their beloved at such-a-time in such-a-place. Then he had insisted on helping Sirius compile evidence for his pardon, despite Sirius having already organised this during his house arrest at Grimmauld Place many years before. So, he was tired and emotionally fragile, and had nothing extra to give to argue against his well-meaning Godfather, even about something as simple as what clothes to try on and buy.

Unsurprisingly, the clothes Sirius chose for him fit well and looked good. Sirius' eyes lit up appreciatively when he saw his Godson in well-fitting clothes, embarrassing him by having him spin around. Fred wolf-whistled, and Harry's face twitched. This went on for some time as Harry all-but exhausted the options he had available to him, although he had pointedly avoided anything too sheer or too _white._ However, it came to a point where it was all he had left to try on.

“You still need to try on the white tees, Harry,” Sirius reminded him.

“Actually,” Harry started, “isn't the white t-shirt the exact same as the grey one? We know it fits, so I don't need to try it on.” It was his last-ditch attempt at getting out of this – of being seen.

“Ah, but what about the V-neck?” Sirius replied promptly, pushing him back into the fitting room. “Keep those jeans on, you look great in them,” he added, voice muffled slightly by the door separating them.

Harry slowly pulled off his shirt, tossing it back into the basket without folding it nicely. The brief feeling of rebellion against his Aunt Petunia's specificity about the folding of clothes felt hollow. He looked at his scar, then looked at the V-neck. It felt so stupid to be scared of a piece of clothing. But that's what it was.

It wasn't the shock of being a scarred person that bothered Harry – he'd already suffered that at the hands of Dudley and his gang whilst growing up, and then later from Malfoy and his cronies. No, he was used to being a scarred person – but not like this. Not so visibly. Not so hideously. The lightningbolt scar had been annoying, true – but at least his untameable mane sometimes fell in such a way that it was hidden. At least a lightningbolt was cute, perhaps something one might see on a bracelet or as a micro tattoo. At least the phrase 'I must not tell lies' had faded into an illegible white slash across the back of his hand. But there was no getting away from the chest scar – it was ugly, and it was big.

As these thoughts circulated in Harry's mind, his hands slowly followed his Godfather's command. They pulled the V-neck over his head, scrabbling for a moment to save the glasses from falling off his face.

The only thing he really felt was the weighty dread in his stomach as he opened the door and stood in front of Sirius, waiting for the inevitable – pity? Sadness? Harry didn't want any of those things. He knew the people reading the _Daily Prophet_ probably felt sorry for him, because he was so _young_ when he'd conquered and killed the most formidable Dark wizard since Grindelwald; he knew the people watching the BMNN ( _British Magical News Network_ ) grieved alongside him at the huge loss of life. He was sick of being the main target of sympathy and well-wishes when his best friend's family had lost a son, when his Godfather had lost his best friend, when little Colin Creevey had returned to defend Hogwarts and died.

Sirius didn't say anything for a long time. He scanned Harry up and down many times, frowning.

“Sirius. Sirius? Say something, you idiot!” Remus hissed. Harry was clearly miserable, his eyes downcast and cheeks flushed with shame. The scent of dirt, library books and fresh parchment washed over Sirius as the werewolf grabbed him, shaking his shoulder.

Fred pulled on the back of Harry's shirt. “Get back in here, Harry,” he muttered, but still Harry didn't move. The same anxiety that had forced him out of the stall had rooted him to the spot.

It felt like an eternity before anyone spoke. Then, finally, Sirius broke the silence.

“Harry...” The teen didn't move. “Harry... do you feel good wearing that?” Harry slowly brought his eyes up to meet his Godfather's. He hated how hot his face was and how tear-blurred his eyes were, and guilt settled in alongside the anxiety. This was nothing compared to the problems the poor Weasleys were having, or the Creevey family. He shook his head.

Sirius smiled faintly. “Then we don't buy it. We'll leave it here.” He reached forwards to grab Harry's hands, squeezing them between his own.

Harry stared at the hands holding his for a while. He gazed at the tattoos there, watching them swim in and out of focus as he blinked. Eventually the tears went away and his vision unblurred, the tattoos now black and fairly crisp against the pale skin of his Godfather. Harry couldn't read it, his knowledge of Ancient Runes being extremely poor, but it helped to focus on something specific whilst he calmed down. His cheeks still felt a bit flushed when he finally looked at Sirius, but he smiled, weakly.

Sirius squeezed his hands one more time. “Come on. Let's get back into your clothes and we'll go do something else. We'll get you some new shoes another time, I'm too hungry to shop anymore.” Harry nodded, being fairly hungry himself. He went back into the changing room stall and didn't feel quite as bad as he did before, although he deliberately turned his back to the mirror as he changed into his original clothes.

A few minutes later they'd paid (“Sirius, don't do that, they're my clothes-”), bagged up their new purchases (“Thank you... you've spoiled me...”) and found a nearby alleyway to bewitch the hefty bags to meet them at home. Once that was done, Sirius and Harry Side-Apparated to their picnicking spot.

Sirius had chosen Regent's Park as their post-shopping stop-off. It was mostly quiet as they walked around, finding a nice spot to have their picnic. Sirius and Harry walked in a companionable silence, although Fred and Lupin were chatting away with their respective victims quite happily.

“You should probably talk to Harry a bit more about that scar, Padfoot. He's obviously upset about it,” Remus said, taking Sirius' left-hand side. He had his hands in his pockets and smiled at the afternoon sunlight on his face. He'd neglected to enjoy the simple things shortly before he died, too busy with Order business and being a father and husband. At least he could do so now whilst he was temporarily back.

“Thing is,” Remus continued, knowing Sirius was not about to answer him, “it'll need to be done in a way that won't upset him further. I think you handled that quite nicely in the changing rooms, actually – you didn't just go in all guns blazing like usual.” At this, Sirius shot his friend a glance and nodded in acknowledgement. Remus' reassurance meant a lot to him, and he had definitely been the best out of the four of them when it came to these sorts of things. Remus was the level-headed one, the one you could go to for genuine advice and a willing shoulder to cry on. Sirius' chest ached a little when he thought about how he would lose Moony again once he was with Harry – he'd already spent the first month or so lost without him.

Meanwhile, Fred was chatting to Harry.

“Seems like Sirius has done quite well for himself, really. He's got that big house you and him want to sort out, his own motorbike, and a lot of money from the looks of it.” Although material goods no longer meant anything to him, Fred couldn't keep the slight jealously out of his voice. He'd only known financial security after opening his business with George, but he hadn't forgotten his roots.

Harry glanced at him to show he was paying attention. He still felt off-kilter, but was doing his best to hide it – something he'd become good at.

“Anyway. You two should probably go back to sharing a bed!” Fred said rather happily. Harry had to fight with himself to keep his face controlled, but did manage to throw a glance of confusion and shock his way. Fred rolled his eyes, casually slinging an arm over Harry's shoulder. The smell of cut-grass intensified.

“Don't look at me like that, Harry. That first night at the Order Headquarters? 'Oh, Sirius, I'm so upset with Hermione and Ron for keeping me in the dark all summer, I've been so lonely, can I stay with you tonight?'” Fred imitated, wrapping his arms around himself. Harry's cheeks flushed, partly out of frustration that he couldn't say or do anything in response. “Yeah, Harry. We never mentioned it to you or anything but, Christ, that was so Gryffindor of you, just to come out with it like that. You should do that more often.”

If Harry could respond, he'd protest. But he couldn't. Fred backed away a little bit but looked at Harry knowingly. It would be infuriating if Harry wasn't still happy with him being back, however temporarily.

“Alright. Let's stop here and eat,” Sirius' voice cut through Harry's thoughts, and he let himself be led off the path and onto the grass. They settled down and Sirius made a show of producing a picnic basket from under his leather jacket, the pantomime of it all so ridiculous Harry couldn't help but laugh.

“Slight disclaimer,” Sirius admitted, opening the picnic basket, “I am so rubbish at cooking that I didn't even make our lunch today.”

Harry said he didn't mind and it was true. He was very good at cooking the basic things the Dursleys had demanded of him, which usually consisted of greasy English Breakfasts with thick slabs of buttered toast to accompany it, but not that great at anything else. Sirius, having been brought up in a household that employed house elves, had never learned to cook, so his attempts at doing so usually resulted in meals that resembled charcoal. Regardless, it didn't matter – they were spending time with each other, and that was the main thing.

Sirius pulled a couple of bottles of beer out from the picnic basket when Harry remembered his Muggle upbringing. “Sirius, that's illegal. We can't drink out here.”

Sirius shot him a sidelong glance. Slowly the bottles in his hands transfigured themselves into near-perfect replicas of Coke cans. Harry accepted one, amazed at his Godfather's magic.

“Must've missed the lesson where McGonagall taught us that one,” he said in unconcealed wonder. Sirius said nothing, but took a long sip of his drink and visibly became more relaxed.

*

After Side-Apparating back to Grimmauld Place, Sirius realised he had no plans for the rest of the evening. In all honesty, he had never officially told Harry that today was a date, and if it had been one it had been a bit of a disaster. Perhaps fulfilling the wish of his Guardian Angel was not going to be so easy after all. Regardless, he'd enjoyed spending more time alone with his Godson, knowing such opportunities would be few and far between over the coming days. Bearing that in mind, perhaps a laid-back evening was in order.

“Drinks and telly?” he suggested, toeing off his shoes. Harry nodded.

*

They were, on all accounts, merry. The incident in the changing rooms had been forgotten – at least for now - and the two had ultimately enjoyed their day. They ascended the old staircase together, shoulders bumping. Fred raced ahead into Harry's room, but Remus stayed behind, observing from a distance.

They reached Harry's door, and Sirius opened it a crack. The bags from their shopping trip lay scattered around Harry's bed.

Sirius was ready to leave for his own bedroom when Harry smiled at him. It was the smile Sirius remembered from before the War, from before Cedric died. It wasn't strained or forced, or there just for a moment before falling from his face. He looked _happy_. Carefree.

Then, Sirius stumbled back a bit, the drink leaving him a little unbalanced, as Harry gave him a hug. He immediately wrapped his arms around the other's shoulders, squeezing just enough to make Harry feel safe.

“I had a great time with you today,” Harry said, voice a little muffled by Sirius' shoulder. Sirius felt strong and smelled like leather and the outdoors. Harry went to drop his arms, to move away, but the tightening of Sirius' grip on his shoulders made him stop. Sirius was gazing down at him, an unvoiced question on his parted lips. His messy bun had deteriorated throughout the day and tendrils of hair framed his face. The hands around Harry's shoulders had relaxed a little, but there was a firmness behind the touch. And they were standing so close, still pressed against each other.

It was Harry who broke the gaze, stepped back, hand running through his hair automatically. He wasn't looking at Sirius anymore.

“I really need to sleep, err – thanks again – 'night,” he mumbled, and before Sirius could say or do anything, he'd bolted into his bedroom and shut the door.

The finality of the door closing confounded Sirius. He went to knock on the door, but stopped himself. He went to open the door, but stepped away. He stood in the hallway, not doing much of anything, but his mind was buzzing with replays, questions, feelings.

“Right,” he finally said to himself, before a quick muttered, “ _Accio_ Firewhisky _._ ” He held the bottle loosely in his hand, and shuffled off towards his own bedroom, alone.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Sirius fail at communicating, and visit the Burrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I have enjoyed writing this chapter, although it feels a bit different from the other ones - it's a bit more about Harry and his extended family, rather than just about him and Sirius. I hope the shift isn't too distracting or annoying, but there are some things I really needed to do in this chapter. The next chapter should be a bit more balanced with regards the focus on Sirry and Harry's extended family. Also a big thank you to everyone who has commented, bookmarked or left kudos - I'm a bit rubbish at responding to messages, but I'm going to try and work on that from now on. Please enjoy the chapter!

_Colin was a popular and enthusiastic Gryffindor -_

No. Too much like a school report, and so impersonal. Scratch.

_Colin was kind, smart and brave._

Better, but too simplistic. Question mark.

_Colin Creevey was a true Gryffindor, brave to the very end -_

“You've got to learn how to say 'no', mate,” Fred said, making Harry jump. The black-haired teen took off his glasses and rubbed at his tired eyes.

“And how am I supposed to say that, exactly?” Harry asked, irritated, still rubbing his eyes, “How am I supposed to tell them that I can't do this?”

“You turn around, smile, and then say 'no'. Easy,” Fred replied. At that Harry threw down his quill, ink splattering over the ancient writing desk. He glared at the speckles of black ink decorating the surface of the desk with a huff.

“Well, I already told them yes, so I can't get out of it now,” he snapped.

Harry wasn't actually frustrated with Colin's family – on the contrary, he was rather touched. Out of the many tear-stained, shakily hand-written Owls he'd received over the last few weeks, Mr and Mrs Creevey's had struck a particular chord with him. He recalled seeing Colin's tiny, pale body lying in the Great Hall amongst the other bodies, a fatality that should never have happened, and the guilt that threatened to bring him to his knees. Colin had not been old enough to remain at Hogwarts, and despite MacGonagall's instructions to evacuate the grounds, he'd stayed to fight. The photographer had been a Gryffindor right until the very end, and now Harry was tasked with somehow translating that courage into a eulogy for the boy's funeral.

“And now you know for next time!” Fred chided, his usual cheer not gone. He gave Harry a friendly nudge, and Harry inhaled the comforting scent.

Harry didn't reply, hearing a knock at the library door. He replaced his glasses on his face, turned in his seat and schooled his face. “Hey,” he said, as neutrally as possible.

Sirius grimaced at him, leaning against the doorframe. He had thrown a dressing gown over his clothes from the day before, a steaming cup of tea in one hand. “Hey,” he said back, pushing himself off the door-frame to approach his Godson. Harry didn't turn or attempt to hide what he was doing, so Sirius frowned when he caught sight of the ink splatters and unwanted sentences criss-crossed out on the piece of parchment. “Busy?” he asked, clearing his throat as his voice cracked. Now that he was closer, Harry could smell the stale alcohol on him. He fought back a wince.

“Kind of,” he answered, unable to keep some of the edge from his voice. He wanted to point to the clock, to show that he'd spent an entire morning alone – _again_ – but somehow he held back, bit his tongue. He definitely didn't want to look needy in front of Sirius, especially after he'd survived perfectly well when it was just him, Ron and Hermione on the hunt for Horcruxes, but perhaps that was the point – he'd become accustomed to company, to having people around, and his Guardian Angel wasn't cutting it. Besides, Sirius had promised he'd be there for him. Harry felt another pang of guilt at his sudden selfishness.

“Sorry-”

“I'm just-”

They stopped and stared at each other. They'd both tried to talk at the same time. Sirius was frozen, mouth still open, and Harry took pity on him, gesturing for him to finish.

“I'm sorry, Harry,” Sirius repeated, rubbing his free hand against his face as he shook his head in disgust at himself. “I didn't mean to leave you alone. But I did. I'm sorry.” He cast his eyes towards the floor. Some of the ink from the thrown quill had splattered there, too, and he smeared it with his foot.

Harry frowned, fiddling with his hands in his lap. He never knew quite what to do when Sirius apologised. It reversed their usual roles and it didn't sit well with him. Perhaps he simply didn't want to be the responsible one, and yet his heart couldn't help but soften as he watched Sirius' tentative, child-like smudging of the ink across the floorboards.

“Thanks,” he said quietly, meaning it. He allowed Sirius to reach around the back of his neck, pressing him against his Godfather's tummy in an awkward hug. As quick as it began it was over, so Harry turned back to his work.

“I'm trying to write my speech for Colin Creevey's funeral,” he said, pointedly changing the topic. Sirius took a sip of his tea, allowing the drink to warm him. “It's not going well,” Harry admitted, gesturing to the many crossed-out and question-marked sentences he'd written. He reluctantly retrieved his quill.

“I can help you with that,” Sirius said, straightening his back. A sense of purpose, a job for the day would really help him to get back on track. He enjoyed feeling productive, although it was a struggle most days. “I don't mind-”

“Don't worry about it,” Harry interrupted, furrowing his brow as he bent over the parchment again, quill in hand. He was not about to accept sympathy-help from anyone, and especially not from his Godfather. Not when he had caused this. Not when the blame for not just Colin's death, but the deaths of everyone else rested on his conscience.

Sirius' face dropped, although Harry couldn't see it.

“Harry, what on earth are you doing?”

“Are you sure? I'm quite good at these things-”

“I can do it myself,” Harry said, a little more loudly, and both Sirius and Fred stopped talking at once. The silence seemed to bounce off the walls, more than just a mere rebuttal. “I _need_ to do it myself,” he muttered, and began to write.

Sirius blinked, his Godson's words piercing his gut. He wanted to cry out in frustration, to insist on helping out, to get angry – but he didn't. He couldn't bring himself to voice any of those thoughts or feelings.

He turned on his heel and stalked out of the library, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.

*

They avoided each other for the rest of the day. Sirius always made sure to make his presence known nearby, listening to the radio in the next room and reading the _Daily Prophet_ noisily.

After a long day of replying to messages by hand and trying to write Colin's eulogy, Harry was fatigued. He stood up from the rickety chair he'd tried to cushion with several lumpy pillows from the library sofas, but his back was aching all the same. He was in the middle of stretching and cracking his back when Sirius knocked again at his door, this time holding a bottle of Firewhisky in his hand. Harry frowned, but said nothing.

“T'morrow we're going to the Burrow,” Sirius mumbled, not making eye contact. Harry nodded, again fiddling with his hands.

“Yeah,” he said in response. He hadn't forgotten. He shot a sideways glance at Fred, who was staring off into the distance. He had half-expected the red-head to insist that he speak to Sirius, to make amends for their separation that day, but he was clearly not in the mood to push.

“Good,” Sirius said.

“Right,” Harry said.

“G'night, Harry,” Sirius said, hesitating by the door for a moment.

“Yeah, 'night,” Harry replied with another nod. Sirius gave a half-smile and left, the Firewhisky bottle held loosely in his hand. He took a bracing swig from it as he ascended the staircase to his bedroom. He kicked open the door and sat on his bed, staring directly ahead as he took another long gulp from the bottle. He didn't really feel much of anything inside, so the burn of his drink of choice made him feel _something._

And something is always better than nothing.

“Slow down, at least,” Remus said in almost a whine, watching his friend with a mix of disappointment and shock. Sirius didn't reply, raising the bottle to his lips, although he didn't drink again. His eyes kept on staring dead ahead as he blew into the bottle, the sound booming through the silence. Remus shook his head and his shoulders sagged.

“I don't know what to do,” he said, more to himself than to Sirius, “I don't know what to do.”

Sirius' back hurt. The wood of his headboard was digging into his back, but he hadn't the energy or drive to shift his weight to arrange his pillows so he could sit comfortably. His eyes were stinging from staring, but he had no inclination of blinking. He wanted to pull up his blankets and bury himself in them, to hide his face from the world and never move again – but he didn't move an inch.

*

“You could've let him look over it, at least,” Fred said as Harry was getting ready for bed. Harry was about to get into his pyjama top, back facing his Guardian Angel, but he paused long enough to shoot him an annoyed glance.

“It's all my fault,” Harry explained, his head emerging a moment's later from the inside of his pyjama top, “it's my fault that Colin Creevey died, so I have to do this alone. And nobody understands that.”

Fred folded his arms and frowned. “That's because everyone thinks you're wrong, mate.”

Harry sighed, and let out a sound of frustration. “I'm too tired to talk about this right now,” he said, running his hands over his face and through his hair. He looked exhausted, and he wanted nothing more than to throw himself into bed and forget about everything – but he still had one more thing to discuss with Fred before he could rest. It was something he perhaps should have mentioned earlier, but had been avoiding it purely to keep himself a little bit sane. It was serious, it was big, and Fred definitely needed to know about it before they went to the Burrow the following day. So instead of falling into bed, he sat himself down on its luxurious softness and sighed again.

“Look, Fred, there's something I need to tell you,” he began, wanting to be as direct as possible, “something about, er, you.”

Fred grinned. “Don't think there's anything you can tell me I don't already know about,” he declared confidently.

Harry shrugged. “So you know you haven't been buried yet.”

Fred's mouth fell open. “Didn't know that,” he admitted, and for a second was too stunned to ask the questions that raced through his mind. Harry waited as patiently as a tired man could, crossing his legs as he prepared to be the one to help his Guardian Angel.

After a while, Fred settled on one-word questions. “How?”

“Preservation charm. When the charm starts wearing off, the next Weasley sibling comes along and tried to make theirs last as long as possible – not easy when you're grieving.”

“Why?”

“Grief, probably. George. Molly – er, your mum.”

“When?”

“When?”

Fred rolled his eyes. “Yes, Harry, when am I going to get buried?”

Harry hesitated for a single moment - long enough for Fred to figure it out. “There's no date yet, is there?” Harry shook his head.

“I'm sorry.”

Fred banged his head against one of the posters of Harry's bed, groaning. “Never thought I might actually have to attend my own funeral. Did try faking my death once or twice, though – did we ever tell you about the time we convinced MacGonagall we'd exploded each other in a duel? Made us write apology letters to her and the Head of Trauma at Saint Mungo's. Never really knew what to do with the singed dummies we'd made of ourselves afterwards.” Harry didn't need to ask who he was talking about when he said 'we' and 'us' – it was clear he was referring to George.

“Anyway – I'll let you get your sleep,” Fred said, as Harry yawned. The black-haired boy looked guiltily at his Guardian Angel, but was inwardly thankful. He scooted back and slid under the covers, sleep coming to him wonderfully fast after days of tossing and turning.

Fred stayed where he was for a little while, considering what he'd just learned. After an hour or so of contemplation, he left Harry's bedroom.

This visit was going to be more interesting than he'd thought.

*

It had been a long time since Harry had visited the Burrow. Percy and Charlie had moved back in temporarily, and Hermione was staying over, so the kitchen was extremely busy when Harry and Sirius arrived. As soon as she saw them, Hermione ran across the room to give Harry a big hug.

“Long time no see,” she said happily, pulling back to look Harry up and down with an admiring smile, “you look good! Those jeans look great on you!”

“Thanks,” Harry muttered with a blush, “Sirius helped me choose them.”

Hermione beamed at Sirius, too, and gave him a hug.

“Everything's been so busy here,” Hermione said briskly, returning to where she'd been stirring several pots with her wand, “really there's too many people staying at the moment, I don't know how Molly's coped. I've offered to find a hotel or a small flat somewhere, but-”

“But Mrs Weasley won't let you,” Harry said with a smile. Hermione nodded.

“Yes. In all honesty I think she'd like you to stay over, too,” she said, glancing at Sirius, who'd bee-lined for Arthur Weasley immediately, “but she knows deep down you're better off with Sirius, at least for the time being.”

Harry didn't say anything for a moment, choosing instead to embrace the chaotic, lively atmosphere of the Burrow. It was certainly a sharp contrast to the gloom and quiet of Grimmauld Place, and in his younger years he'd have considered this place his home – but he felt more like a visitor than he ever had before, watching as Hermione juggled tasks in the cramped kitchen. He still felt happy at the Burrow, and the familiarity of the place soothed him, but he didn't feel as comfortable somehow.

Fred, too, was happy to be back. He watched on with a smile as his siblings fought for space, for the chance to speak to Harry, or to do anything. Bill was missing, although he was likely with Fleur and possibly would be coming over later. George was also absent from the bustling crew downstairs, which he noticed with a frown. Harry flashed him a reassuring nod, but Fred only shrugged in response. They had tried to speak again earlier about the impending visit, but hadn't gotten very far. Just how was someone meant to deal with this situation?

“Ah! Harry!” Mrs Weasley's voice interrupted Harry's thoughts. She was still as plump and cheerful as ever, but the bags under her eyes added a tiredness to her demeanour Harry hadn't seen before. Molly swept Harry into a massive hug. “I've missed you!” She frowned and pulled away from the hug, cupping Harry's face.

“How are you, my dear? Sleeping okay? Drinking enough water? Eating enough? He isn't feeding you enough, you feel so tiny – you're starving him, Sirius!” she yelled the last part across the bustling ground floor of the Burrow, and everything hushed a little to listen in.

Sirius turned from his conversation with Arthur, and offered Molly a polite smile. “He eats as much as he wants, Mrs Weasley,” he replied cordially, although his smile didn't meet this eyes, “I'm not about to force him to eat.”

Mrs Weasley rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes, it's still not enough,” she mumbled to herself. Harry grimaced uncomfortably, but before anything else could be done or said, Molly set about shouting for the other occupants of the Burrow to come down and eat. Weasley after Weasley emerged from the staircase, offering Harry a greeting, but George was still not to be seen.

“Bloody hell,” Fred said to Harry as he was reunited with his various family members, “Mum's still got it in for Sirius, eh?”

Harry nodded in a way he hoped was unnoticeable. “Always,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

“I still think it's out of love,” Fred continued, knowing Harry wasn't really able to respond to him publicly, “but you're pretty much an adult now. It's none of her business how much you eat.” Harry nodded again in agreement, but turned as he heard a noise from the stairs – it was George. He walked slowly, as if carrying something heavy on his back. Eventually, he made it down the stairs. Harry felt more than saw Fred tense and look away, but he forced himself to watch.

George was a wreck. He had always walked with confidence, but now his shoulders were slumped over, his eyes downcast. From what Harry could see, George's face was very pale, the freckles scattered across his cheeks a stark contrast to the white skin below. Dark circles were sunk into the skin under his eyes, and it looked like he hadn't slept in days. He was dressed in old tatty clothes that seemed too big for him, and – Harry noted with a jump – one of Fred's old Christmas jumpers.

“Those are mine!” Fred whispered into Harry's ear, pointing, mouth agape, “those are mine.” Harry wanted to comfort him so badly, but knew he couldn't. Instead he leaned against his Guardian Angel a little, hoping that would do _something_. Fred gripped his shoulder in response. They watched, together, as George took a seat in-between Mrs Weasley and Percy, the latter of which smiled sympathetically at the lost twin.

“Well, everybody dig in!” Molly said brightly, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Everyone was silent for a few seconds as spoons sunk into mounds of mashed potatoes and massive servings of vegetables, until conversation began to naturally develop again. George made no attempt to move, gazing blankly ahead, so after serving himself Percy set about scooping up food from the nearby plates and placing it on his brother's plate.

Percy chatted along as if George was responding to him. “Some veggies for you, always a good thing... ooh, looks like Mum's famous onion gravy! Let's get you some of that.”

“He was a bit of a prat,” Harry muttered behind his hand to Fred, “but he seems to be trying his best now.”

Fred kept his gaze on his twin, although his eyes narrowed a bit. “He was more than a bit of a prat, he was a massive fucking prat,” he corrected. Harry let it slide and jumped a little when he noticed Sirius watching him, hoping he hadn't noticed him talking. He looked down at his plate shyly for a moment. “... But he was alright, before I got myself killed. He did his best.” Fred conceded. Harry didn't respond, worried he was being watched.

“That is _not_ all you're having Harry, come on!” Mrs Weasley interrupted the moment, standing up and grabbing Harry's plate. Harry had only put some steamed carrots and peas on there when he'd become distracted by Percy's fussing, but he was unable to protest. Molly piled his plate full of vegetables, potatoes, meat and gravy, placing the mountain of food back in front of the boy with a happy smile. “ _Much_ better,” she said, giving Sirius a pointed look. Sirius said nothing, although to Harry it was clear as day he was biting his tongue. His eyes were narrowed and directed strictly at his plate, face contorted into a grimace.

Remus was coaching him.

“Just let her do this,” he said in a soothing voice, clapping a hand onto Sirius' shoulder reassuringly, “this is her way of showing love for him.”

“And smacking me down in the process,” Sirius muttered as he took a swig of the beer Arthur had procured for him. Remus laughed quietly, and the smell of crisp, fresh parchment flooded Sirius' senses.

“I don't think she honestly intends to make you look like a bad provider,” he reasoned, smiling a little as he watched the scene unfolding before him, “she probably thinks she's being helpful.” Sirius snorted into his drink and rolled his eyes, but said nothing. This was always how things had been between him and Molly, and one instance of him biting his tongue was hardly going to settle their differences.

The rest of the meal went by smoothly. Fleur talked enthusiastically with her new family, practicing her English as she sipped her favourite French wine. Hermione and Ron had their own little back-and-forth going about who would serve who, and who had eaten more than the other so that they could be equal, and Percy was still chatting encouragingly to George, who hadn't spoken a word all evening. He pushed the food around his plate, frowning. Every now and then Molly would glance at him, uncertainty crossing her features for a split moment before rejoining the conversation, serving drinks and food to her family.

Harry was content, by some standards. His belly was full of delicious food, and he'd been able to push some of the extra food he hadn't wanted off his plate and onto Ginny's, who accepted it without question. He had chatted with many members of the Weasley family, and aside from his worry about Fred and George, all was well.

Of course, things were not really well.

At some point in the evening the conversation lulled, and George rose from his seat. He stood stock still, staring, mouth slightly open. Slowly the rest of the conversation died down, and everyone turned to look at the ghostly George.

“Everyone,” he croaked. Harry heard Fred wince, and leaned against him again. Ginny clasped and unclasped her hands nervously. George cleared his throat, and looked at each person sat around the table in turn.

“Everyone,” he began again, voice only slightly less hoarse than before, “I'm ready.”

The silence was caked in tension. After a few seconds, Arthur Weasley smiled his wide, bright smile. “Brilliant,” he said, albeit a little more softly than usual. He too looked tired. The other members of the Weasley family began to react – Ginny's hands fell to her lap; Ron gave a grim nod; Percy was smiling and nodding at George encouragingly; Bill and Charlie bowed their heads.

Molly, however, sat up perfectly straight in her seat, and Harry felt queasy – something wasn't right.

“You're ready?” she asked, as if it had been a question. Harry noticed Percy squeeze his eyes shut for a moment. Something was definitely amiss.

“You're ready,” Molly repeated, “well, George, that's brilliant for you, but it might not be for the rest of us.” She raised her eyes in warning to her children, several of whom looked ready to interject.

“Harry, mate, what's going on?” Fred muttered, leaning in close to Harry's ear and resting an elbow against his shoulder. Harry felt uneasy at the fact that for once, he wasn't the only one left out of the loop.

“He's ready to bury you,” he murmured back, again trying to muffle his words with his mouth. Again he caught Sirius' gaze, who now looked concerned. Harry gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile, all-but immediately returning his gaze towards Mrs Weasley.

Fred stood back up straight behind Harry. He strode over to where George was sat and stood behind his twin. Harry's heart filled with happiness at the sight of them reunited again, but it also sank knowing that they were still unfairly separate, torn apart forevermore.

If George felt any change from his brother's presence, he did not indicate so outwardly. He did raise his gaze to meet the eyes of his siblings, however, although his eyes still looked glum and dull.

Sirius was the first to break the silence. He didn't want to be the antagonist in this situation, but as someone outside of the Weasley family unit he felt emboldened to speak up.

“Molly,” he began, and she turned to shoot him a deadly look. It was a warning. Sirius continued, calmly, “if George says he's ready, then we should listen to him.” Remus put his head in his hands for a moment, before using them to smooth down his hair. This was a bad idea, but Sirius ploughed ahead with it anyway. He'd always been the most impulsive of the four of them.

Molly's cheeks flushed. “George is a _child_ ,” she retorted, raising a finger and pointing it sternly at Sirius, who remained calm, “and just because he says he's ready does not mean that anyone else in this family is. I will not have him speaking for everyone.”

“Mum, we've been through this before,” Ron interjected from the corner. Hermione gripped his hand, the one that was resting on the table. Ron's expression was tight, but determined. “George knew him best, so he knows best.”

“He's not speaking for any of us, he's made his own mind up,” Bill added, Fleur winding her arm around his and resting her head against his shoulder.

“And it's about time we let Fred rest,” Ginny piped up from beside Harry. Her hands were clenched together so tightly Harry could see the whites of her knuckles.

Molly threw her hands up in agitation. “Don't you all start this again,” she cried, pointing her finger at each of them. Ginny squeezed her hands together even more tightly, and Ron shook his head sadly.

“Now look what you've started,” Remus whined, but Sirius ignored him. His intentions were good, and he had done the right thing in standing up for George – that was irrefutable.

“George is no longer a child, Mrs Weasley, he is of age,” Sirius said, using the honourific in the hopes it would make her wrath less nasty or aggressive.

Molly turned towards him, slowly. She looked like she could spit acid.

“I should _not_ have to bury my son,” she said, voice quiet and deadly. She glared at Sirius as if she could blast him away from the table with a mere look. Sirius stayed put. “I shouldn't have lost my boy. And _I_ am his mother. _I_ get to decide when we're ready.”

Silence. Nobody was making eye contact, and several of the Weasleys looked ready to burst into tears. Hermione stared at her and Ron's intertwined fingers, stunned. Fleur turned her face towards Bill's neck.

Then, a quiet, lone voice cut through everyone's pain and feelings.

“I shouldn't have lost my twin brother, but there you go.”

It was George. He looked directly ahead, eyes focused and attentive. His eyes held the same determined look when he was about to step onto the Quidditch Pitch. For a moment, he pushed through his exhaustion and pain, and he looked fierce. In control. He turned to look at his mother with a hard gaze, who looked as if the world had collapsed at her feet. Far from the venomous dictator she had been moments ago, she looked woebegone and small.

“Besides,” George continued, turning back to face his stunned siblings and friends, “we all agreed we wouldn't cast the preservation charm again. It's not fair on any of us, and it isn't healthy. And we've all had a go at it by now. We're not doing it again.” Fleur let out a small sob into Bill's neck, and a tear skittered down Ginny's cheek. Percy's eyes were full of unshed tears, but he nodded along in agreement with George.

Arthur Weasley was a good man, and a good husband. He stood up and approached his wife gently, cautiously. “He's right, Molly,” he said kindly, opening his arms to hug her. Molly pushed him away. He staggered back, hurt. Tears soaked Molly's cheeks and her breathing came in heaving waves, but she said nothing. Arthur stood awkwardly next to his distraught wife, shooting a knowing but exasperated look at his children.

“Sirius,” said George, and the man stirred. George looked at him with that authoritative stare, and Harry realised Sirius hadn't been defending George simply for the sake of doing so – he genuinely believed that his word trumped everyone else's. The sadness that had settled in his stomach lessened a little at the realisation.

“Sirius,” George repeated, “you lost a brother, and all of your best friends. You probably have a good idea of how this feels.”

For a moment, Sirius said nothing, and he shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “I suppose I do,” he said, “but Reg wasn't my twin.”

“Still,” George continued, “you know what it feels like to lose everything. And you've always been so good to my family. You gave your time and advice when me and Fred were crafting some of our best-sellers. You made our time at Hogwarts so much better when we found your map, the Marauder's Map. And the pranks you pulled were the stuff of _legend_.” Although it was neither the time nor the place, Sirius smiled. Behind him, Remus did too.

“You were in many ways a role model to me and Fred. We're birds of a feather. So that's why I'm asking you to...” George paused, his bravery faulting for a moment. Fred, who already knew what his brother was thinking, placed an encouraging hand on his shoulder. Whether George knew it or not, his twin had his support.

Emboldened or not, George carried on, “... to give a eulogy at Fred's funeral.”

Sirius froze. The smile on his face fell a little as shock replaced the fond, indulgent look. Then, the smile returned. “I'd be honoured to,” he said.

The fallout of those words was like an explosion. Chairs scraped across the floor, cheeks wet with tears and red with rage let forth screams.

“HOW DARE YOU-”

“Molly, dear, calm down-”

“DON'T YOU TELL ME TO CALM DOWN ARTHUR-”

“Mum, stop it! Stop yelling at Dad!”

“IT IS THE MOST INAPPROPRIATE, ILL-THOUGHT OUT-”

“Mum, MUM!”

Amidst the chaos, George stayed sat in his chair. The commanding look he'd had moments before had faded a little as he kept his eyes forward, as if everything was still and calm. He had a slight victorious smile on his face.

“Harry, come on-” Sirius had somehow ran around the table and was at Harry's side, tugging at his arm insistently. “Time for us to go.”

Harry started a little, grabbing his jacket as he was pulled away. “Shouldn't we-”

“No, Harry, not this time,” Sirius said, casting him a warning look as they escaped together outside. Still holding on to his protesting Godson, Sirius side-Apparated them away from the Burrow and back to the peaceful, quiet sanctum of Grimmauld Place.

Harry kept clutching Sirius' jacket, even as he realised where they were, and Sirius brought his arms around his Godson. They spent a few moments holding each other like that, absorbing what had happened and what had been said. Sirius stared grimly ahead at the doorway, thinking about what he'd done. Harry closed his eyes and let his chest hurt at the events of the evening.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius and Harry fortify Grimmauld Place, and Hermione asks something of Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. Life's been busy and this update has been a long time coming. I hope that you all enjoy this chapter, I tried to incorporate some more fluff alongside the drama, hopefully it still makes sense and flows nicely. I'm slowly starting to respond to comments and the like, and I really appreciate everyone's support so far. Thanks again for reading, and I hope that you enjoy the chapter.

Even with two remarkably gifted wizards under one roof, people-proofing their home was a difficult task. Sirius blocked up the Floo whilst Harry busied himself with the front door.

Considering Fred had spent most of his life trying to unlock doors rather than do the opposite, his advice on how to successfully keep them from being disturbed was solid.

“Thanks,” Harry muttered. His Guardian Angel nodded in acknowledgement, but didn't smile. He looked grim and serious since their return from the disastrous evening at the Burrow. Harry wasn't quite sure of what to say when Sirius poked his head around the door.

“Floo's blocked off. Hermione might still be able to find a way in because, well, she's Hermione,” he said with a shrug and knowing smile that made Harry melt a bit, “but we should be alright for now.”

Harry nodded, a little overwhelmed from the turn of events that evening. He followed Sirius into the sitting room and saw two steaming mugs of tea on the coffee table. He accepted the silent invitation and settled into the comfortable sofa next to his Godfather, replaying the chaos at the Weasley's over and over in his mind. Sirius settled in besides him so that their shoulders were touching, and wordlessly Harry rested his head on his Godfather's shoulder.

“D'you think Mrs Weasley will try to get in?” Harry asked quietly, cradling his mug in his hands. Sirius took a small sip of his tea and shrugged.

“If she does, she'll have a tough time. If she recruits Hermione, she'll have an easier time of it, but I'm hoping Arthur has calmed her down and nobody turns up tonight.” He sighed and rested his head against Harry's for a moment. The house was quiet and still for once, as if even the ghosts knew not to disturb them tonight. Remus settled down into an old armchair to the side of them, but Sirius didn't stir or otherwise indicate that he'd noticed.

“It was always going to be tough,” Harry said, closing his eyes for a moment and bringing his knees up to his chest, “but I wasn't expecting _that_.”

Sirius snorted. “The part where Molly yelled at everyone, or the part where George asked me to speak at Fred's funeral?”

“Both,” said Harry and Remus together, although only Sirius heard the latter speak.

Fred wandered into the living room and threw himself into another armchair, still lost in thought as his eyes stared dead ahead. Of course, him and George looked alike, but his gloomy demeanour echoed so perfectly how George had been earlier that night that the aching feeling burrowed its way back into Harry's chest, so he looked away.

Sirius sipped his tea again as he considered how to respond to that. 'Be the grown-up in the room', he said to himself, in a voice that sounded weirdly like Lupin's.

“She loves them all, Padfoot. She just happens to hate _you_ ,” Remus chided jokingly. Sirius shot him a look from atop the unruly mess of Harry's hair.

“... She's certainly always been a very... _passionate_ woman,” Sirius began slowly, and Harry chuckled. Encouraged by Harry's lack of defense for her, Sirius grinned and continued, “... but she cares about her family most of all. She'll come around.”

“That's true,” Harry agreed, glancing at Fred as subtly as he could from his comfortable position. The evening was still pleasant and he was a little warm against Sirius like this, especially with their hot drinks, but he didn't mind. It was nice to be snuggling against someone.

“It was nice, what George said about you,” Harry continued, and Sirius smiled.

“Yeah. It was. They're good lads.” He used the contraction because he wasn't exactly sure how else to refer to George now – he'd been a part of a unit his entire life. A buy-one-get-one-free bargain since his conception. To refer to him as someone separate felt odd.

Harry wasn't thinking about language – or if he was, it wasn't showing outwardly. “When I was in third year and everyone thought you were trying to kill me, they kept trying to find ways to freak everyone out. They took the Wanted posters and cast illusion charms on them so people would think you were actually there.”

Sirius snorted. “Did it work?”

Harry snuggled himself further into Sirius' side. “They stuck one on the canopy of my bed when I was asleep. Bit of a nasty shock when I woke up.”

Sirius laughed, and in the corner of Harry's eye, he saw Fred's mouth twitch. “Can't believe you never told me that,” he said, shaking his head. Harry scrunched up his face as hair tickled him.

“Almost _Reducto'd_ my bed to pieces.”

They continued to sit like that for a while, the peace and closeness a welcome distraction. Eventually Harry got too warm and too fed up of Sirius' hair tickling his nose, so he edged away but stayed close so their thighs were still touching.

As they sat, Sirius stirred a little. He shifted uncomfortably for a moment, and sighed.

“Harry – I noticed at the Burrow tonight, you, er – Merlin, I am _shit_ at this – you seemed to be talking to yourself a bit...” the older man said, and Harry's stomach fell away. He swallowed and let the silence hang between them, but lost his nerve after a moment and made a 'mmm' noise to throw responsibility for the conversation back at Sirius.

“In... Azkaban… it - it was something I did a lot, especially in the beginning... it helped me to process everything that'd happened. I had so many thoughts and sometimes just saying them out loud helped, or when I wanted the noise to go away, I'd shush myself out loud.” Harry looked up at his godfather, who was keeping his eyes low. It struck Harry that Sirius had probably never shared any of this with anyone before, and that was why he looked so hesitant and unsure of himself.

“Anyway, I... I suppose what I'm saying is that if that's something you're doing at the moment, that's fine. I don't think it's weird. But obviously I want to keep an eye on you, and if you want to, you can talk to me about things,” Sirius said, and Harry relaxed. A lot.

“Thanks Sirius,” he said, and meant it. Although that wasn't the reason why he'd been talking, he could see it was a challenge for Sirius to share these things with him, and that he was genuinely trying to reach out and support him, and seeing someone who cared was wonderful.

Sirius looked relieved. “Good. That's good.”

Remus smiled from his seat, proud of his friend. During their Hogwarts years, the Marauders had all been a bit rubbish at communicating. Remus himself was guilty of this, especially in the years before his friends worked out that his monthly disappearances coincided with the full moon. After realising that Remus had Lycanthropy, the boys were a little more inclined to communicate with each other, sharing thoughts and feelings – but even then, from time to time, they’d rib each other if they were found being too sensitive. James and Sirius had been the worst to each other, with Sirius mocking James tirelessly for his affections for Lily, and James returning the banter with whatever insult came to mind at the time.

And yet despite all that history, Sirius was responsibly and respectfully navigating the fallout of the second War. It was clear that he already deeply loved Harry, even if his romantic feelings were still in bloom. So the Guardian Angel smiled to himself in contentment, happy that something was going right for his friend.

Sirius and Harry remained in silence for a little while longer, although the quiet was not tense. Then, eventually, Harry drained the rest of his tea and hesitated as he placed the mug back onto the coffee table.

“Actually, Sirius… there is something you can maybe help me with,” Harry said, frowning.

“Go on.”

“Can… can you… help me to write Colin Creevey’s eulogy?”

Sirius blinked several times, recalling Harry’s previously hostile reaction. “Of course,” he answered slowly. Harry nodded to show he’d heard.

“Brilliant. Thanks. It’s just…” Harry closed his eyes. Remus noticed that they looked oddly bright, like emeralds in a cave. Harry swallowed, and scratched at his new scar self-consciously.

“I know… no one would agree, but… I feel responsible for a lot of things, and that’s why…” Sirius opened his mouth to interrupt, but then closed it immediately. Clearly, this was something Harry was struggling with, and he needed to ensure his godson felt that his thoughts and feelings were valued and heard, even if he disagreed with them.

“That’s why… I wanted to do it by myself. I feel like it’s my duty… like a burden I have to deal with… but I really need some help.” Harry’s voice cracked a little at the end, and he bowed his head, tears falling. Sirius wrapped his arms around him, and Harry let himself cry. His face scrunched up into Sirius’ chest as if doing so would block out everything, but of course his feelings and worries were stubbornly stuck. They would be there if he cried and if he never cried. They would be there if he slept and if he never slept. They would be there if he did things and they would be there if he did nothing.

*

It had taken Hermione around five hours to figure out how to get through Sirius' wards blocking the fireplace from the Floo network. Fortunately, she had come alone.

“Morning Hermione,” Harry said, not bothering to look up from the toast he was buttering, as if her appearance had been expected, “tea?”

“Please,” Hermione replied, taking a seat at the kitchen table. Harry set about preparing the tea, rejuvenated a little by the better-than-usual sleep he'd had. He'd actually nodded off on the sofa for a while, and awoke at around two in the morning to find Sirius had done the same. After dragging themselves upstairs to their respective bedrooms, it was a little harder to get back to sleep – why did the sofa seem so appealing?

“Took you a while,” Harry said as he set the tea in front of Hermione. She wrapped her hands around the mug and tilted her head to one side.

“I only bothered trying to get through to you this morning. Everything was in a bit of an uproar when you two left last night, so I thought waiting 'til morning was best.”

“Ah,” Harry responded, stirring his tea. Looking at Hermione's face in the morning light, he could see that she too had dark circles around her eyes, and her eyebrows were furrowed as if in deep thought.

“You see, everyone thinks Molly is being totally unreasonable,” Hermione continued, not really minding that her friend wasn't offering much in return, content to be listened to for a while, “she can't expect the family to keep up the preservation charms forever. Even I had a go and my spell only lasted five days. I think it was just the shock of it all that made her react that way.”

“Mmhmm.”

“It's not like we weren't expecting it, of course, but I think she'd hoped that when the time came, it would all be a bit less... public.”

Harry frowned a little at that. “How much less public did she want it? It was just you lot and me and Sirius-” he caught the look on his friend's face, and rolled his eyes. “She's never going to be nice to him, is she?” he asked irritably. Sirius hadn't even killed anyone, and had proven himself to be an excellent Godfather to Harry over the years, and yet Mrs Weasley still failed to give him her stamp of approval. It was as frustrating as it was disrespectful to Sirius' efforts.

Hermione shrugged. “Doubt it. I think Sirius is used to it – not that that makes it right, of course,” she hastily added, seeing Harry's face twitch, “I think she's being out of order – but none of us have any idea what's going to happen next and, well...”

“Well, what?” Harry asked. His toast was going cold.

Hermione gestured in exasperation. “About the eulogy,” she said, as if it were obvious.

“You'd have to ask him,” Harry said, “but I reckon he'll do it. George asked him to and Fred-” he paused, remembering that he couldn't say everything he wanted to his best friend. He looked back down at his tea and took a bite out of his toast as he thought carefully about what he wanted to say. Hermione waited.

“-I think it's what Fred would have wanted,” he finished, sighing. He flung his toast back onto the plate, completely disinterested in food again. “I know that's a really rubbish answer, but I have a feeling about this. It feels _right_ somehow.”

Hermione's brow unfurrowed as she rubbed at her tired eyes. She tugged her sleeves down when they fell, covering her scars from the torture she'd endured. 'She's self-conscious too,' Harry realised, and felt another twinge of guilt about his new scar and the feelings he had about it. He rubbed at his chest.

“I agree with you,” Hermione admitted with a sigh, and drank deeply from her mug. “Everyone else agrees, too. It's just Molly that needs to come around. But, Harry, we don't have a lot of time before...” Hermione swallowed, and for a moment looked quite ill. “Harry, we need more time, but Ginny's preservation charm isn't holding. Someone else needs to cast it.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything, and the implication of what had been said hung in the air. The hairs on the back of Harry's neck rose, and he couldn't suppress the shudder that went down his back. “You mean-”

“Yes,” Hermione interrupted, but gently. She placed a hand on top of Harry's and squeezed. “Please,” she said. She wasn't begging or pleading. Her tone of voice could have suggested she was asking of him something as simple and everyday as emptying the rubbish bin. And yet she was, in fact, asking him to buy the family some time to ease the worries of their grieving mother, sparing their sanity as well as their brother's body.

Before he'd had any friends, Harry had spent many a night staring at the low ceiling in his cupboard under the stairs, wishing. He'd wished he had friends so that he could spend time with them and do fun things, like how Dudley did with Piers. He'd wished he had friends he could joke with and be serious with. He'd wished he had friends he would do anything for. During his time at Hogwarts, that hope had been put the test countless times, and he'd thrown himself in the face of danger to spare his friends the unpleasantness. What he'd got in return was friends who didn't expect or want him to martyr himself for them, although they would willingly do so for him. What he'd earned was love. And as he stared down into his cup and felt Hermione's cool hand on his, he felt devotion and love pierce through the exhaustion and the shock of recent events, and he knew what his answer would be.

“Alright,” he said quietly. His words seemed small and tiny in the massive space of the kitchen, but the significance of it all was so overwhelming their hearts clenched with gratitude and the pain of bereavement, and they were both at a loss for words.

Hermione squeezed his hand again, and she hid her face behind her hair.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

*

Harry and Hermione arrived at the Ministry's Chapel of Rest for Fallen Witches and Wizards. The area was actually repurposed offices that had been hastily whisked away elsewhere so that families would have a private place to grieve and identify their dead friends and family. The reorganisation of the involved departments had grumbled initially, but hastily offered their office space once informed of the reason behind the inconvenience. Harry had visited this place before, and had privately hoped he'd have no further reason to go – but he would do anything for Hermione.

Candles and torches lit the room to eliminate any of the gloom of the office. Professor Flitwick had personally visited the Chapel immediately after the War ended to charm the ceiling, transforming it from a dull, brown affair into a perpetually sunny sky – much like the bewitched ceiling in the Great Hall at Hogwarts. Tables were neatly arranged in rows with enough space between them for several visitors at a time. A few people were standing beside their deceased loved one, and yet again the many faces of grief showed themselves – some were crying, some looked frustrated and angry, and others seemed like empty husks.

Hermione took Harry's arm, linking it with her own, as they weaved around the tables together to arrive at Fred's table. Most of the other tables nearby had been vacated, the families having collected the body and buried or cremated it. Some still remained, although the preservation spells and potions being used were beginning to become less effective. Harry wrinkled his nose instinctively.

“It's awful, isn't it,” Hermione whispered, more of a statement than a question, “it gets to me every time. We tried to burn incense once, but we got told off by Officials.”

Harry grimaced in reply. They looked down together at Fred's resting body. The ruddy shine that had so often been on his cheeks had faded, the freckles becoming more prominent as the skin became whiter, with a tinge of grey in some areas. The skin had shrunk a little, giving the usually stocky man a tired, hungry look. Harry wanted to look away but couldn't. He felt his eyes sting with unshed tears, but he refused to let them fall. He felt a numbness inside that had been with him since he'd first seen the damage the War had done, that aching weight inside him that repeated like a prayer, 'this is my fault'.

“Well,” Hermione said a little louder, her eyes looking somewhere above Fred's body, “no time like the present,” she said. Harry drew his wand. He was about to mutter the preservation charm when Hermione began talking again, all in a rush.

“What I've found is best is if I really concentrate hard when I cast it, it really seems to help-”

“It's alright, Hermione,” Harry said, not dismissively. Hermione nodded and stared at her feet.

“Right,” she said, bracingly, “right.”

Harry turned back to Fred's body. It gave him a strange feeling of disassociation. His Guardian Angel looked nothing like the shrunken, emaciated ghost lying before him. The body was clearly a poor copy of the man he knew, the man who would likely be waiting for him back at Grimmauld Place. At home. Although not about to cast a _Patronus_ spell, Harry let the happy and warm feeling of having a place to truly call home well up inside him, displacing the nagging feeling that he was enabling some kind of wrongness.

“ _Praeservare_ ,” Harry muttered, with a precise flick of his wand. As the spell took hold, Fred's skin began to fill out, the ruddiness returning to his cheeks, and the pallor of death washed away. Now it looked more like he was sleeping peacefully, simply dozing in front of the Common Room fire after a particularly gruelling training practice. Harry replaced his wand inside his pocket.

They stood watching over Fred for a little while longer, Hermione clutching Harry's arm again like it gave and sustained her life. Harry said nothing when he felt her shake and tremble, wetness dampening his jacket.

“Thank you,” she said after a long while, wiping her face. Somewhere across the space another person was sobbing, each cry an insight into their misery and suffering. Once more the feeling of guilt and responsibility rose with an urgent swell inside Harry's chest, and he found himself unable to speak. 

“Let's go, Harry. I'll never be able to thank you enough for doing this,” Hermione said. 

Arm in arm, the two of them left the Ministry of Magic.

*

Harry invited Hermione in for another cup of tea, but she refused, insisting that she needed to get home. The dark rings under her eyes suggested that she needed a good night's rest more than anything, so Harry didn't insist and let her go with one final hug. He walked back inside the Ministry so he could Floo back home, and before long was dusting himself off in the living room of Grimmauld Place.

“Is that you, Harry?” Sirius yelled. It sounded like he was in the kitchen. 

“Yeah, it's me,” Harry answered, brushing the soot from his clothes as he went into the kitchen and rested in a chair. He felt emotionally and physically drained, and yet it was still only early afternoon. 

“I take it Hermione got her way inside,” Sirius said, and Harry nodded. “I see.” Something about him seemed a little off, but Harry was too tired to address it. He needed a minute, or maybe even an hour to recover from what he'd just seen and done.

Unfortunately, Sirius was not about to allow him that luxury. 

“You cast the _Praeservare_ charm,” he said. Harry noticed the tinge of irritation in Sirius' voice, and he looked up, annoyed.

“Yes I did,” he said, defensively. His best friend had asked him to do so – how could he refuse?

“You shouldn't have done that,” Sirius said, frowning and folding his arms. Harry furrowed his brow, folding his own arms.

“Hermione asked me to. I couldn't say no.”

“Yes, you could.”

“Look, this whole thing with Mrs Weasley is not going to go ahead smoothly, I was the only one they could have asked-”

“No, they could have asked any number of other people to cast a preservation charm,” Sirius retorted. 

Harry was unable to resist rising to the bait.

“Like who?” he demanded.

Sirius raised a hand, counting the people off on his fingers as he spoke. 

“They could have asked me, Professor McGonagall, Fleur's family-”

“\- Well, they didn't ask them, did they? They asked me-”

“-Harry, that was not your responsibility-”

“-It shouldn't be anyone's responsibility!”

“You could have asked me, I would've gone and-”

“Yeah, that would have gone down well, wouldn't it?” Harry snapped, and as soon as he said it he regretted it. Sirius stopped talking, his hand slowly falling to his side. He had never looked at Harry that way before – he was _angry_. Even when Harry had been stupid enough to fall for Voldemort's plan to get him to the Department of Mysteries, Sirius had never looked mad or blamed him. And yet now with a single glare he was making Harry wish the floor would swallow him whole. 

“Look, Sirius, I didn't mean-”

“Save it,” Sirius hissed, and Harry flinched. The quiet fury of his Godfather hit him like a punch to the gut. He needed to make things right.

“I just – I needed to go -”

“Stop talking,” Sirius warned, his voice rising with anger. Harry closed his mouth and looked at the floor, ashamed.

“It's my fault he's there, so-”

Sirius wasn't listening. He slammed his hands against the kitchen table so loudly Harry jumped, hands frantically searching for his wand. He got out of his seat and backed away, afraid. 

“This is _my_ house, and you'll do as I say,” Sirius yelled. A look of shock crossed Harry's face for a moment before he covered it up. He lowered his wand. He bit his lip in fear and worry. Before either man could say or do anything else, he bolted. 

The portraits on the wall flew past in a blur as Harry ran to his room, clearing the stairs two at a time. He almost pulled the door off its frame in his rush to get inside, and then with shaking hands cast three locking charms on the door, a silencing charm as large as the room, and a protection spell. He then threw himself onto his bed and cried, his sobs coming out in loud, uncontrollable waves.

Fred immediately ran over to the bed and grabbed Harry's shoulder, trying to turn him over. Harry was tightly curled into a ball. “Harry, mate, what's the matter?”

“Just go away,” Harry sobbed, his breathing a shaky, gasping mess.

“What's happened?”

“JUST LEAVE ME!” Harry screamed, as loud as he could. He pushed his Guardian Angel away, and Fred stared at him, open-mouthed and shocked. 

“Fine,” was all he said before disappearing. Once again, he was alone.

Harry curled back into himself, his face a hot, sticky, wet mess. He chucked his glasses across the room, and they hit the floor with a loud clatter. He cried as loud as he could for as long as he could, all the grief he'd felt over the last weeks overwhelming him like a tsunami. It felt like he was drowning in sorrow.

“It's not my home,” he murmured to himself, rocking backwards and forwards, “it's not my home, it's not my home.”

 


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More drama ensues, but it finally seems that Sirius is on the mend - thanks to Remus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the lack of updates! I know it's been a long time between updates. Personally the last few months have been challenging for me, but I started writing yesterday and finished today. I think I just needed time to sit down and write. So, here you are! Thank you for your support with the fic and I hope you'll enjoy this chapter.

Harry woke with a throbbing head. He'd slept fitfully, waking up so often it was unclear to him whether he'd nodded off or not. His face felt sticky and grubby. He felt gross and – he remembered, with a fresh wave of hurt – unwanted.

It could have been hours or minutes later when Harry took a shower, wiping away the grime that seemed to accumulate after a good cry. He moved mechanically, barely noticing whether he covered his body with shampoo and his hair with shower gel. The water hurt a bit, hot enough to stain the skin pink.

After some more time, possibly minutes or hours later, Harry found himself sat in the corner of a quiet little Muggle cafe, his best mate's face grim with tiredness.

“Thanks,” Ron said awkwardly, and Harry nodded. There was no point in feigning ignorance – likely the whole Weasley extended-family knew by now.

“S'alright mate, any time,” Harry replied, although he'd rather do anything than cast another _Praeservare_ charm again in his life.

Ron sipped at his ridiculously large, cream-topped hot chocolate, spooning in mouthfuls of the white stuff in a way that seemed rather like his old self.

“Date's been set,” he said. What he was referring to was obvious, so again Harry didn't reply, but nodded again. Ron cleared his throat and stirred some of the cream into his hot chocolate, cooling it enough to take the burn off. “In three days' time, it'll all be over.”

Harry wanted to shake his friend. Just what would be over? Did he think that holding an official ceremony was going to stop the pain, to dry up Mrs Weasley's tears, to make George like his old self again? But still he said nothing, and even said something to the effect of “That's great” before sipping his own drink. It was still scalding hot, but he didn't mind or notice.

Hermione and Ginny sat at another similar table in what could have been the same chain of coffee shops a few miles away, also in Muggle London. Ginny was treating her, for a change.

“None of us really know how to say thanks,” Ginny admitted, stirring an iced lemonade the same colour as her hair with a plastic stick. Hermione shrugged.

“It needed to be done,” Hermione said firmly, thinking as ever in practical terms. She cut off a corner of the slice of cake Ginny had bought on a whim and nibbled at it, cupping a hand underneath it to catch any crumbs. She pushed the rest of the plate towards Ginny.

“Did Harry seem... I mean, was he okay about it though? It was horrible when I...” Ginny shivered, staring out of the window without really looking, “... y'know,” she finished, lamely, sipping her beverage.

Hermione flicked her eyes down. “I suppose it is,” she agreed, “but yes, he was okay with it. He did it, after all. So, he must have been okay with it, yes,” she said, a little more confidently. Whispers and the clicks of camera-phones broke through her train of thought, and she turned in her seat, following the Muggle's pointing.

They were pointing at an owl bearing a large but yellowed envelope, and Hermione's eyes narrowed. She had a bad feeling about this. She went cautiously over to the door, and the owl flapped, bearing towards the door.

“Oi, Missy, don't you let that bird in 'ere,” a barista warned, “'ealth an' safety!”

Hermione glanced back at him, and tried to open the door quickly, slinking herself through the gap to receive the letter, puzzled. Who would be writing to her? She took the envelope and the owl flew away, much to the amazement of the Muggles shopping along the busy street. She shrugged meekly. “Childhood pet,” she said to no one in particular. The nearest Muggle family chivvied their children along, encouraging them not to stare at the strange lady.

Hermione's fingers ran along the seal of the letter.

*

Harry and Ron had spent another hour or so in the coffee shop before deciding to head over to the Burrow. Harry didn't say that he probably needed somewhere new to live, that his Godfather had all but thrown him out, but made it very clear he was in no mood to return to Grimmauld Place, and even Ron wasn't block-headed enough to push the issue. So they Apparated back to the Burrow and headed inside.

Things seemed normal up to a point. The pots and pans were still scrubbing themselves clean, knitting being worked by an invisible hand. But the mood was certainly low.

“Home,” Ron said to no one in particular, and headed towards the kitchen, hoping for a lunch-time snack. Harry followed. Together they raided the cupboard, finding some biscuits that had been tucked away, and they went upstairs to Ron's room.

“Hermione! Ginny! What're you two doing in here?” Ron asked, surprised. He went to hide the biscuits, but Hermione's puffy red eyes and Ginny's serious, stony face made him do quite the opposite. “Biscuit?” he offered lamely.

Hermione stared at the floor, no longer crying but clearly still upset. Ginny snatched the packet of biscuits from her brother and tore the packaging open, stuffing a biscuit into her mouth before speaking.

“Where have you been?” she demanded, wiping her mouth on her sleeve, “your girlfriend's upset!”

Ron shot his sister a look. “How am I supposed to know that? I haven't seen her all day!” he replied, and the younger of the two rolled her eyes. Ron shuffled awkwardly across the room, shoving his sister aside so he could sit by Hermione. The clever witch closed her eyes and leaned against his shoulder, but refused to cry again. She held in her hand an envelope turned yellow by time. Ron's nose wrinkled in confusion.

“A Howler?”

Hermione nodded, not really paying her boyfriend any mind. “A lot of Muggles heard...” she whispered.

Ginny made a sound of frustration. “Who cares if they heard?! Harry-” She rounded on their silent visitor, hands on her hips in defiance, “you've got to tell that Godfather of yours to lay off the booze. He sounded ridiculously drunk.”

Harry started, his brain not quite wrapping itself around the situation. His tongue felt heavy and slow in his mouth, and he saw Ginny's frown deepen. “Err,” he started eloquently, “you mean...”

“Yes, Harry, Sirius sent Hermione a Howler,” Ginny snapped impatiently. Harry averted his eyes as if he were the one responsible. People certainly enjoyed treating him as an extension of his godfather, although really as they were both adults neither had any bearing or rule over the other's activities whatsoever.

“I mean, _you_ cast the charm, for Christ's sake,” Ginny continued, annoyance giving her the strength to continue, “if you didn't want to do it, it wouldn't have worked, and definitely not as well as it has. I haven't seen Fred that perky for ages,” she said, her voice thinning a little as she mentioned her brother's name. Ron glanced up at his sister, but didn't move from Hermione's side.

“Harry...” Hermione started, quietly. Ginny controlled herself and said no more, although it looked like she was ready to give a piece of her mind. Ron rubbed her back and gave what he hoped was an encouraging look.

“Harry... I hope you didn't feel that I forced you into casting the spell... I never wanted you to feel pressure, in any way...”

“I didn't,” Harry insisted, his mouth suddenly able to work. “I mean, it wasn't a nice thing to have to do, so in that sense I didn't want to do it, but needs must, right? If it wasn't going to be me, then who?”

Hermione listened to Harry's explanation calmly, like a teacher patiently waiting for their student's explanation after something gone awry. She nodded slowly.

“I can understand that,” she said, “but... Harry... I think Sirius has a problem.”

“Yes,” Harry said, not looking at anyone.

“I think he needs help.”

“Yes.”

“I don't think he's doing very well.”

“He's not.”

The four of them were quiet then, and Harry tried to find the right words to explain.

“Nobody is fine, not really. I remember thinking when we were searching for the Horcruxes that once we'd found and destroyed them, it'd all be over. But there's always something else, and it's just never-ending. But it's not like people are going to get over things overnight. I'd hardly expect them to. I'm not over anything. And some days it feels like I'll never be over it.” At that point Harry looked over at his friends. Hermione looked sympathetic, Ron thoughtful, and Ginny was still frowning.

“And Sirius, he... he lost his best friends. He takes responsibility for a lot of things, even if he couldn't have changed them. He spent twelve years in the most awful place on Earth, and then he was on the run, and then he was stuck inside a place he hated that reminded him of people he hated, and now everyone's dead. And I don't think he ever really got to the point where he could handle that. And I'm not – making excuses for him, believe me, because everyone's suffered – but I think these are problems that are not going to go away quickly, and I have no idea how to help, or even if I ought to be helping.”

No one spoke for a minute or two after Harry finished. The Weasleys had, more or less, pulled together in their grief, becoming a more tightly-knit family because of it. Even Percy had come back home, and Bill brought along Fleur whenever he visited, which was usually every day.

“... I think he needs to apologise to Hermione,” Ginny said after a while, breaking through the silence. Harry nodded.

“I agree.”

Ginny folded her arms.

“It's not fair, what he said.”

“I can imagine. I know what he's like. He can be very personal.”

“Exactly.”

For a while, they stayed like that, boyfriend and girlfriend sat on the bed together, scrunched up tightly in a ball of reassurance, whilst sister and best friend stood as onlookers peering in, obvious in their discomfort. Eventually Harry went over and gave Hermione a long hug, and then after a while everyone joined in, and it was impossible to tell who was crying.

*

Harry was surprised when he tumbled through the fireplace of Grimmauld Place freely – clearly their defences had completely fallen after he left. The house seemed weirdly silent, which made Harry certain that Sirius was about. Perhaps he'd even heard him Floo in and was avoiding him.

Harry still felt a mix of emotions about the day before. He was scared and upset at Sirius' anger. He knew he was annoyed that Sirius was trying to tell him what to do, even if it came from a good place. And he was terrified that on top of everything else he needed to do, he would need to find a new home away from Sirius, and how that would affect the both of them.

Grimmauld Place was dark and miserable again, as if it altered itself to better fit it's Master's mood. A floorboard somewhere above creaked. Harry stepped into the living room properly.

“Your Godfather sent my sister-in-law a Howler.”

Harry reached for his wand, but the shock was only temporary. Fred was sitting in an armchair, looking glum and surly all at once.

Right. First things first.

“Listen, I'm... not good with emotions,” Harry said, taking a seat opposite Fred by perching on the coffee table.

“Could've fooled me,” Fred replied, stony-faced. Harry allowed the barb, feeling that he deserved it.

“I'm going to make him apologise. But I need to apologise to you. Your job is to be here and make me happy, or to help me, or some vague thing I'm not exactly sure about, and I shouldn't have pushed you away. I'm sorry. I miss you,” he said, and he truly meant it.

Fred didn't say anything, the frown on his face a weird and imperfect echo of Ginny's.

“You have to _let_ people help you, mate,” Fred said after a while, sighing. “You can't be doing everything on your own. It's not your responsibility, whatever you think. You've got to... let people in.”

Harry knew it, but the guilt gnawing at him was already whispering in his ear with its pretty lies, telling him that he owed other people, that he couldn't say no, that he needed to prove himself as good to everyone who doubted or challenged him.

Harry opened his mouth to answer, when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He swallowed, and his hand flew to his wand without thinking. He didn't really believe that Sirius would do him any harm, but its touch was comforting. Finally, the footsteps stopped and Sirius turned to enter the living room.

He was a wreck. The hair that had been so nicely tamed just a few days before looked matted and unkempt again. His skin looked blotchy and his eyes were dark and bloodshot. His clothes were creased as if they had been slept in.

For a moment, Harry and Sirius stood at their separate ends of the living room, neither saying a word. Then slowly, Sirius cracked a smile, and raised his arms out.

“Harry...” In a moment later at a speed which surprised them both, Sirius had wrapped Harry in a tight hug. Harry let himself be taken in, cringing at the strong whiff of alcohol.

“I'm so sorry Harry...” Sirius whispered, running his hands over Harry's back like he wanted to be sure he was really there, almost grabbing and pinching in his search for proof, “... I said some terrible things... I am so sorry...”

Harry felt his heart give, and his own arms reached up and wrapped around his Godfather. He scrunched his face up because the touch and smell and emotions of Sirius were overwhelming him, but he didn't pull away.

“Can... can I stay here?” Harry asked, his voice suddenly small and tight.

“Yes, yes, of course, I would never want you to go,” Sirius moaned, gripping his Godson even tighter, and Harry let out a single sob. “Shh... shh... I would never kick you out, I'm so sorry... this is our house... it's all ours, Harry, all ours...”

It wasn't perfect, but it was a start. Things needed to get better, and there was still a lot of raw emotion from the both of them, but Harry had a loving and forgiving heart, and he knew he could never really have left Sirius alone anyway because he cared too much. Sirius was truly repentant, his body and mind reeling from the alcohol and the sharp-tongued truths of his best friend, his Guardian Angel.

Unbeknownst to the two of them, Remus and Fred looked on at the reunion, both hopeful for the future.

*

Sirius had showered, tamed his hair, and groomed his face. He looked a little less like the gaunt shell of a man that fled Azkaban, and more like his recent self – still a bit grim, still a bit unhappy, but improving day by day. He had risen early and sent off a letter to Hermione containing his most heartfelt apology to date. Although he couldn't remember the exact contents of his Howler, Remus had enlightened him, and it turned his stomach. Along with his apologies, Sirius ordered a custom basket of gifts to be sent to her, in addition to an offer of dinner before the funeral. Lupin had supervised the entire thing, occasionally pitching in with ideas on how to precisely phrase the apology, and suggested what items would be best for the gift package.

“Olives, Moony? Really?”

The Werewolf smiled. “This is a peace offering, after all.”

Sirius groaned. “Bloody Muggle sayings,” he said, albeit in a slightly friendlier growl than usual. He was smiling.

“That's the spirit. Now, you should throw something in there for Ron, too. You need to keep _him_ happy now those two are finally seeing one another.”

“... Chocolate Frogs and Pumpkin Tarts?”

“That'll do.”

Sirius had been writing for so long that his hand was smudged with ink, although his writing was immaculate on the parchment. He'd dug out some of the quality stationery that had been left for official Order business, and the enchantments on it allowed him to draft, redraft and edit without unseemly scribbles marring the page. He sucked on the end of the expensive quill – probably from Scrivenshaft's – lost in thought.

“Come on now, that's done. Let's send it off immediately with the Owl... good. Now, on to your speeches! Colin Creevey's would be a good place to start.”

Sirius appreciated Remus' guidance, and knew that without his pestering he'd likely still be in bed, asleep. “Harry asked for my help, not for me to write it for him...”

“It would be a lovely gesture,” Remus said briskly, tapping the desk. Sirius stirred and summoned the parchment Harry had been working on, which was decidedly of a lower quality than what he'd been using before. The parchment was wearing thin in places where Harry had scribbled something out too viciously, as if so unhappy with what he'd written he'd hoped he could scrub it from existence.

“Now, come on. Take what he's written and run with it. Add some nice bits to make it pretty, and you can proof-read it with Harry later.” Remus continued, and his gentle chiding got Sirius writing again, just like it always had when Sirius had not wanted to write, tiredness and a fearlessness of detention making it easy to hand in late work. The realisation made Sirius smile, and it felt just like old times. He could almost hear the crackle of Gryffindor's fire blazing behind them, hear the low hum of activity from his classmates as they relaxed or worked on their own studies, hear the portrait door swing open behind him and the call of his friends...

Today, Sirius was going to do good deeds.

*

“Post!” Mrs Weasley shouted, wobbling slightly under the weight of the intricately wrapped basket. Percy rushed to take it from her, and placed it on the table. Puzzled, he searched the package for a name, and saw the letter attached to it.

“Hermione, this is for you,” he said, pushing the massive thing over to Hermione. It was so big he could barely see her from behind it – only the frizz of her as yet untamed hair.

“What on earth...?”

*

Sirius had been writing for hours when Harry finally found him in the study. He was cradling a cup of tea and re-reading what he'd written with a thoughtfulness and concentration he hadn't seen from his Godfather before.

“Morning,” Sirius said, and the pleasantness surprised even him – he wasn't a morning person by any means. Harry padded over to the writing desk, self-conscious that he was still in his pyjamas when Sirius was already dressed. He plucked at the fabric anxiously.

“What do you think...” Sirius said, having just finished reading his creation for himself, “about this?” he asked, handing over the eulogy for Colin Creevey. Harry gave him a puzzled look, but accepted the parchment, holding it carefully so as not to smudge the ink. His eyes scanned it at first, but after realising what it was he began reading more slowly, properly. Sirius waited impatiently for his response, but knew not to rush his Godson. He instead took a slow sip of his tea, wondering just how long the caffeine would take to invigorate him.

“Well?” he asked after a moment more of silence, eager to know Harry's thoughts. Remus laid a hand on his shoulder, and he fell silent once more. But still he fidgeted in his seat, always the impatient one.

Eventually, Harry finished reading the eulogy. Then he read it again. And then again once more. Slowly, he pulled his eyes back up to look at his Godfather's expectant gaze. If Remus was not mistaken, he was about to cry.

“This is wonderful,” Harry whispered.

Sirius grinned.

*

Hermione had sent back the reply slip to accept Sirius' invitation immediately, and she and Ron Floo'd over that evening at a quarter to seven. In-between writing for Colin and Fred, Sirius had gone grocery shopping (which he absolutely _hated_ ) and was following Lupin's extremely precise instructions to make the first decent meal he'd cooked in his entire life. He'd banned Harry from the kitchen so that Remus could direct him easily, but had claimed it was because he wanted to treat Harry as well, which he judged from the happy glow on his Godson's cheeks was well-received. So it was only Harry that greeted his two friends in the living room, glasses of wine and butterbeer at the ready.

“Cheers mate,” Ron accepted a butterbeer gladly, taking a generous swig whilst Hermione took a glass of wine. Harry had given the living room a quick clean and tidy, and he knew his friend would be scrutinising his work if he wasn't too careful.

“Busy day?” he asked. Hermione's gaze flicked over to him.

“Sort of. Ginny wanted to go shopping for some new robes for the funeral, but ended up having a row with Molly about it – she doesn't think it's a good idea to buy new robes just for Fred. Financially, I mean,” Hermione added, seeing Harry's puzzled look. “I do see her point, but Ginny was so set on it, and you know how she gets...”

“So you were on damage control for most of the day?” Harry asked, smiling knowingly.

“Precisely,” Hermione said, shooting Ron a meaningful glance. He shrugged.

“I don't know about this stuff,” he mumbled around his glass, lowering it when Hermione flapped at him to do so, “but yeah, they were going at it for ages.”

“And the resolution was...?”

“Dunno.” Ron said, but Hermione rolled her eyes.

“In the end, Ginny decided that she would have at least _something_ new for the funeral, and they left it at that, but I don't think Molly was satisfied. So I shared some of the fudge from Sirius' package with her, and, oh, Harry-” Hermione softened a little, and smiled in a way that made her look young and carefree again, “-it was _divine_. Where does Sirius find this stuff?”

Harry shrugged, and was about to answer when the door to the kitchen opened, and Sirius emerged. He'd managed to find the time to change clothes in-between stirring and chopping and mincing (he'd hidden the outfit in the pantry), and his hair was neatly tied back in a low bun. He was a different man in comparison to the shell Harry had seen just 24 hours ago, and he felt a rush of pride.

“Evening,” he said, ever the gentleman. He turned to Hermione, walked over and took her hands in his, a serious look on his face. “Please forgive me. I am so sorry, Hermione.”

The young witch smiled a little uncomfortably, but she had already forgiven Sirius in her heart, and she could see how hard he was trying to make her happy. So she nodded and said reassuringly, “No need to worry. Forgive and forget.”

Sirius smiled and gestured in the direction of the kitchen. “Dinner is served,” he announced, rushing over to open the door for them. He was maybe overdoing it a bit, but he was captured by an energy and an eagerness he hadn't felt in a long time, and he knew to capitalise on it whilst it lasted. There would be time yet for lying in bed all day – but today was about making amends.

Sirius had really outdone himself. With Remus’ help, he had created a fantastic meal, with very few accidents, all things considered. He had prepared a refreshing salad, beautifully presented with a balsamic vinegar dressing. As a main, he had prepared Remus’ famous lamb pie with homemade onion gravy with piles of vegetables to choose from. Dessert was not already out on the table, which suggested to Harry that it was some sort of cool or frozen pudding, but it hardly mattered. Hermione and Ron gave the spread very different but appreciative looks, and Ron all but pushed his girlfriend out of the way to sit down first.

“That’s a good sign,” Remus commented drily, amused at Hermione’s annoyance. They had always been at odds with each other whilst just friends, so it was hardly surprising they were squabbling over every little thing now they were an official couple. Sirius inclined his head in acknowledgement.

“Well, take a seat and, err… enjoy!” Sirius said, taking his usual place. Harry sat opposite him, impressed with the effort his Godfather had gone to make amends.

Hermione still felt a little embarrassed at all the fuss, but Sirius waved away her protestations with his hand. “You deserve it,” he insisted, “everyone deserves it. But you most of all, you’ve put up with a lot.”

“I suppose we all have,” Hermione admitted, trying to ameliorate. “Harry’s been ever so busy with Owls turning up at all hours, guest appearances and giving speeches… I don’t know how you have the energy, really,” she said, gesturing to Ron, “… and I suppose Ron’s been busy too.”

“-Been ‘elping Dad out a lot,” Ron said around a mouthful of pie, having already given himself a huge serving. Hermione looked away, a little self-conscious. But Ron had always been like that with food – there was nothing to keep him from enjoying it unashamedly, like a child smudging ice cream all over their face in joy.

“Yes dear,” was all Hermione said, shooting Harry and Sirius an exasperated glance. Sirius said nothing but served Harry, scooping a few pieces of pie and vegetables onto his plate for him. Harry accepted it as a nice gesture, although he couldn’t remember Sirius doing so before.

“See, Ronald? Harry is served his food by Sirius. How nice and polite and thoughtful of Sirius,” Hermione said pointedly to the red-head, who shot her an annoyed look around a mouthful of pie and gravy. He swallowed and pushed the salad towards her.

“Salad?” he offered. Hermione smacked his arm, and Ron went back to his eating. Harry and Sirius shot each other a look that communicated that this was what they were like, and there was no hope in changing it now.

The rest of the meal went by in a friendly, relaxed manner. Sirius sipped at his orange juice, whilst Harry indulged in a butterbeer with Ron. Hermione enjoyed the bottle of wine, occasionally refilling her glass with a meaningful look in Ron’s direction. Conversation was polite and funny, and the reason why they had all come together had almost been forgotten.

“What are your plans for tomorrow?” Hermione asked eventually, the salad and pie having been finished between the four of them.

Harry thought about it for a moment, going over the day’s schedule in his head. “Colin Creevey’s funeral is in the afternoon, but I’m having a meeting at 9,” he said with a groan. Early mornings were Hell.

“Ministry stuff?” Hermione asked. Harry shook his head.

“Hogwarts. With McGonagall and a few other teachers. They’re still not sure what to do about…”

“… Everything?”

“Yes. About everything.” Harry glanced over at Sirius, who was banishing the dirty dishes from the table to the sink, set on cleaning them later. As if arranged beforehand, Sirius went over to the fridge to retrieve his homemade cake. This looked less pretty than the main course and salad, but Sirius’ argument with Remus had been that cakes didn’t need to look that pretty because he was tired and they tasted better when they looked a bit less than perfect. Remus had allowed it because he was almost at his wits’ end from teaching Sirius even the very basics of cooking (“No, Sirius, ‘simmer’ does not mean turn on the cooker at full blast…”). But the Guardian Angel was smiling smugly, his famous family recipes having been another wild success.

It was at that moment when Hermione asked the question that could potentially ruin the evening.

“I didn’t know you could cook, Sirius. I’d heard awful things. Where did you learn to make all this?”

Sirius was torn between being amused and scandalised, so he spluttered. “I don’t know what you mean. My cooking creations are world-famous.”

“Famously awful,” Remus muttered.

“I was going to say that!” Fred cried indignantly.

“Didn’t you once interrupt a Potions exam by stepping _into_ your cauldron?” Harry asked.

“That was ONE time!” Sirius retorted, and his guests laughed. “Potions and cooking are very different,” Sirius insisted.

Harry snorted. “You have to follow instructions, something you’re very bad at.”

“Well,” Sirius said, producing a knife to cut the cake with, “I’ve done very well tonight and I’m proud of yourself. And to answer your question, Hermione,” Sirius added, gesturing to her plate so that he could serve her, “these were Remus’ recipes.”

“Oh!” Hermione said, accepting the cake and helping him to serve Ron, whose eyes were fixed solely on the cake, “that’s wonderful. That you remember them, I mean. I think that’s a lovely way to keep someone’s memory alive.”

Sirius didn’t look at her, but smiled and served the cake.


End file.
